"UPON ONE OF THE BENCHES A MAN WAS SEATED, HIS ARMS RECLINING UPON THE TABLE, AND HIS HEAD BURIED IN HIS HANDS."

      THE last soft strains of the "Adieu Waltz" had died away upon the cool night-air; the tired musicians were stretching their stiffened limbs, solacing themselves with invigorating pinches of snuff, and yawning in a manner that threatened inevitable dislocation, whilst hastily thrusting away trombones, serpents, cornets, and other brass instruments, into their green baize receptacles. Garçons, like so many excited black beetles, were flying hither and thither, clearing away the small refreshment-tables, and extinguishing the many-colored lights that twinkled like a swarm of fireflies amid the dark foliage of the trees and shrubbery.

      Overhead, the large yellow stars shone out from the background of a deep, blue, cloudless firmament. The air was redolent with the odors of fragrant flowers and exotics.

      Down the broad, white path leading from the dancing-pagoda, still ablaze with its flaring gaslights, a noisy crowd of men and women were hurrying toward the entrance-gate, which, crowned with its double arch of gaudy Chinese-lanterns, was visible at the further end of the avenue.

      A noisy crowd indeed! Noisy with the silvery laughter, the rustle of silken skirts, the gay chatter of female voices and the deep tones of the men chanting the refrain of the last popular Parisian aria, or replying with ready repartee to the lively sallies of their gay companions. Noisy with that gayety and animation so purely French. A vivacity born of their careless and pleasure-loving, Latin natures, harmonious with the seductions of Strauss, and the wild, reckless abandon of Offenbach and Lecocq.

      It had been a fête en masque, given in honor of the recent arrival at Abois of a crack cavalry corps; and the scarlet dolmans, and richly-braided blue uniforms, the glittering tinsel and waving plumes of the Hussars, assorted well with the bright-colored silks and quaint bizarre costumes of the maskers.

      Amid this scene of color and brightness were visible here and there, like stranded wrecks upon a Summer ocean, some miserable men in the ungraceful uniform of civil life, made doubly hideous by their brilliant surroundings.

      All was merriment, joy, and animation. They pushed and jostled each other in the struggle toward the gate; the women jestingly chiding some too pressing neighbor, the men shouting and laughing at these reproofs, and all hastening onward toward the entrance.

      Suddenly, upon this scene of mirth and gayety, like a flash of lightning across the darkness of a midnight sky, came a terrible interruption. A loud cry! then a single word in tones of the most intense terror. A single word, but one which, coming suddenly in the darkness of the night, paralyzed for a time the courage of the bravest, chilled the warm life-blood in the veins of the most enterprising and daring, and rooted the gay and brilliant throng where they stood, mute and silent with horror and suspense.

      Murder! For several moments not a movement was made to ascertain the cause of this sudden alarm. All seemed crushed and stunned by this ghastly interruption to the gayety and merriment. A second cry, louder than the first. A second repetition of that terrible word; and now, by quick revulsion of feeling, presence of mind returns to the petrified listeners, and with one accord they surge in the direction from which the cry appeared to proceed.

      Men and women, pushing, hustling, and jostling each other, pellmell, in their eager desire to gratify the curiosity which had now taken the place of all other emotions! Breaking through hedges of shrubbery, ruthlessly trampling down beds of rare flowers, the eager throng pressed on.

      The search was not a long one; the fleetest foot among the crowd soon reached a sidewalk, into which they turned just as the third repetition of the cry broke the stillness of the night. Another moment, and they had gained a small summer-house or arbor thickly overgrown with climbing vines.

      Near the door a man, whose costume at once indicated him to be a garçon, or waiter, was wildly wringing his hands, his pale face betraying evidences of the most intense excitement.

      "What is the matter?" cried a dozen voices. The man made no other reply except to point to the interior of the arbor, and wring his hands and gesticulate as if entirely overcome with terror.

      Rushing past this man, from whom it was evident no further information was to be obtained, a number of the gentlemen made their way into the arbor and eagerly looked around them.

      The sight that first met their eyes was one not calculated to arouse much alarm in their breasts. A couple of rustic benches, placed on each side of a small table, was the only furniture of the summer-house, which was dimly lighted by a single gas-jet.

      Upon one of these benches a man was seated, his arms reclining upon the table and his head buried in his hands. The figure was mute and motionless. On the table were a number of champagne-bottles and glasses.

      This was the first sight that met the eye of those that entered the arbor, and seemed innocent enough. But when one, more enterprising than the rest, laid his hand upon the reclining form and lifted it to an erect position, a shudder of horror ran through the spectators.

      The sight now presented was ghastly in the extreme. The face was that of a man past middle age, broad, coarse and sensual, with gray hair, bushy side whiskers and mustache. The pallor of death was imprinted upon every feature. The eyes were wide open, staring and glassy. The lower jaw had fallen, the lips were parted; indeed, the whole countenance was stamped with an expression of overpowering fear, and, more terrible still, upon the livid white forehead were two gashes made by some sharp instrument, forming a scarlet cross from which the blood still trickled.

      For some moments no one could speak. All seemed fascinated by the dreadful spectacle. The crowd choked up the doorway, and gazed with pale faces and quivering lips, powerless to reply to the questions of the less favored ones in the rear, who were unable to obtain a sight of the interior, and who eagerly demanded the cause of the disturbance.

      At length the spell was broken. A man pushed his way through the crowd and entered the arbor. His uniform at once showed him to be a member of the police force, and some of the gentlemen recognized him as the Brigadier of the Gendarmerie of Abois.

      No sooner did his eyes fall upon the face of the dead man than he uttered a loud exclamation:

      "Grand Dieu!" he cried. "It is Monsieur Marrois!" This exclamation seemed to break the charm which inthralled the spectators. In a moment there was a perfect Babel of voices, questioning, answering, hazarding a thousand wild conjectures and explanations, quarreling and fighting for a sight of the awful scene. Pushing and shouting to gratify their curiosity, now redoubled in the breast of every one by the information, which ran like lightning through the crowd, "that a man had been murdered, and that that man was Pierre Marrois."

      Several gendarmes now made their appearance; at once an order was given from their superior to disperse the crowd. A task at first not easy to accomplish. However, at length finding it impossible to obtain any further information from the officers, whose only reply to the reiterated question of the curious was the formula, "Circulez, s'il vous plait, mesdames et messieurs. Circulez, s'il vous plait," the throng of men and women began to break away; at first in twos and threes, until finally, like a flock of sheep which had received an impetus in a certain direction, the crowd left the arbor.

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CHAPTER II.

      IN the little arbor, the scene of the tragedy, there remained the Brigadier of Gendarmes, and three gentlemen who had been the first to arrive at the time of the alarm, and who had been requested to remain to give their testimony as to what they had seen.

      At this moment a gentleman, accompanied by one of the gendarmes, came hastily up the walk, and entering the arbor, addressed himself to the brigadier in a manner that plainly indicated him to be one having authority.

      "What is this they tell me, Jean?" he cried. "Pierre Marrois murdered?"

      "Alas! monsieur, it is too true," replied the brigadier, who had been interrupted in his examination of the body by the arrival of the newcomer.

      "Mon Dieu!" exclaimed the gentleman, as his eyes fell for the first time on the ghastly spectacle presented by the murdered man's face. "Mon Dieu! this is horrible!"

      "And the strangest part of it, monsieur," said the brigadier, with a grave voice, and with an air of evident perplexity, "is the fact that, with the exception of those gashes on the forehead, I can find no other wound upon the body, although I have searched as closely as possible."

      "I should say," broke in one of the three gentlemen, a handsome young man, in the costume of Polichinelle, "I should say that Marrois died of fright, if we are to judge from his face; for never in my life did I see overpowering terror more plainly depicted."

      "Monsieur Lejeune," said the first speaker, with a tone of reproof, "fear seldom kills, and especially a man like Marrois. That wound on the forehead ——"

      "Is nothing," said one of the gentlemen. "It is only a flesh-cut, and never could have been the cause of death. If the brigadier is correct, and there are no other wounds on the person, I should say that this man had died by — poison."

      "Monsieur is, perhaps, a doctor? Might I ask his name?" inquired the gentleman whose questions had led to this dialogue. "Your name, if you please, sir."

      "Monsieur has undoubtedly the right to question me," replied the person addressed, drawing himself up, as if somewhat offended at the abruptness of his interlocutor.

      "You are right, sir; I am the Mayor of Abois."

      "Excuse me, Monsieur le Maire," said the gentleman, a tall, slender man, dressed in evening costume. "My name is Aristide Vis. I am not a doctor; but I do not think one needs to be a medical man to know that death could not have ensued from those cuts upon the forehead, and if there are no others, why then ——"

      "Yes, yes," interrupted the mayor; "I see. But, now tell me, Jean," he continued, turning to the brigadier, "tell us all you know about this affair."

      "Very little more, Monsieur le Maire, than your own eyes can tell you. But these gentlemen, who arrived at the arbor in advance of me, are probably better furnished with information."

      "Ma foi!" said the young masker who had been addressed as Lejeune, "all that there is to tell is of the simplest. Monsieur and I" (and here he pointed to the tall gentleman who had given his name as Aristide Vis), "monsieur and I were, I think, the first to reach this spot. What did we find? One of the garçonss dancing up and down, like a madman, and so terrified as to be utterly unable to speak. Seeing which, monsieur and I entered this place, and found, ma foi! what you see before you. I think that is all there is to tell," and the young man looked interrogatively at the tall gentleman, who replied with an affirmative motion of the head.

      "Did you see the garçon, Jean? Which one of the men was it?"

      "I did not see him, Monsieur le Maire," replied the brigadier.

      "But I did," cried Lejeune. "I know the man well. It is Antoine Sachard."

      "Where is he now?" the mayor looked inquiringly toward the gendarmes.

      But it was Lejeune who replied.

      "The poor fellow was so frightened that I should not wonder if he had run home to his wife for protection. He ——"

      "Go, Jean, and find the man at once, and bring him here," said the mayor, breaking in upon the young man. And as the brigadier turned to leave, he continued, addressing himself to these gentlemen: "You, messieurs, will be kind enough to give me your addresses, and can then retire."

      This formality having been complied with, the gentlemen were leaving the arbor, when Lejeune bent down and picked up a small object which lay on the ground. half way between the unoccupied bench and the door, Tossing it upon the table, he said, with a laugh:

      "Pardieu! Papa Marrois has been at his old tricks again, and this time the Siren has sung him to sleep with a vengeance. Adieu, and au revoir, Monsieur le Maire." And paying no attention to the look of grave reproval with which the official replied to his ill-timed levity, the young man ran away in pursuit of the brigadier.

      The other two were following his example, when the mayor laid his hand on the shoulder of Aristide Vis, and begged him to remain.

      The two gentlemen were soon left alone, and the mayor, who ever since his arrival had given evidence of some very strong emotion, which he succeeded in concealing only by a very powerful effort, now said, abruptly:

      "You must excuse me, monsieur, for asking you to remain; but you will understand me when I tell you that I am entirely unnerved by this horrible occurrence. You are, it is true, a stranger to me, but I can see you are a man of intelligence and courage, and I really need some one to support me."

      "I am entirely at your service, Monsieur le Maire; if I am to be of the slightest assistance, you can certainly count upon me to the best of my poor abilities."

      The mayor drew a long breath, and sinking down upon the bench opposite the murdered man, hid his pallid face in his hands and remained for some moments silent. When he again raised his head his eyes fell upon the object which Lejeune had thrown upon the table. It was a gray kid glove. Its shape indicated that its owner was a woman.

      "What is this?" he cried. "Where did this glove come from?"

      "The young gentleman whom you called Lejeune found it lying there near the door."

      "Dropped, I suppose, by one of the crowd?"

      " I think not, monsieur; I am certain no woman entered the arbor. And I noticed, when the glove was picked up, that it lay very close to the bench upon which you are sitting. I am inclined to think that Monsieur Lejeune's last words are true. I think the person who occupied that seat, on which you are now seated, was a woman — and if one is to judge by the shape of the hand, I should say a very pretty one." And, whilst speaking, Aristide Vis took up the little gray kid glove, and examined it with evident admiration.

      "But monsieur," cried the mayor, "do you mean to insinuate that this terrible crime was committed by a woman? Oh, no, I will never believe it; the idea is too repulsive. And, then, those fearful marks. Would you have me believe that any woman could have thus disfigured her victim?"

      "See here, Monsieur le Maire," replied Vis, "what do you make of this?" and pointing to the slender tapering fingers of the glove, he made the mayor observe several dark-red spots upon the delicate gray kid.

      "Mon Dieu! blood upon that glove?"

      "As you say, monsieur," replied Aristide.

      "Oh, horrible!" groaned the mayor, again burying his face in his hands.

      Footsteps were now heard approaching the spot, and in another moment the brigadier of the gendarmes entered, followed by a pale-faced, terrified man, whose costume showed him to be one of the waiters of the garden. Recovering himself, with an effort, from his previous emotion, the mayor turned his attention to the newcomer.

      "So this is Antoine Sachard?" he inquired.

      "Yes, y-e-s, M'sieu l-e M-a-i-r-e," stammered the terrified garçon, with difficulty forcing his trembling lips to frame the words.

      "You were the first to discover this crime; you will now tell me all you know of it."

      "Oh! for that, M'sieu le Maire, what shall I say?" replied the man, resolutely keeping his back turned toward the body of the murdered man. "What shall I say? I am clearing away the tables and extinguishing the lights; I come here, and what do I see? a table with glasses and bottles, and a m'sieu with his head buried in his arms. I say to myself, 'Antoine, the m'sieu is asleep. He has taken (par exemple) a drop too much.' I shake him; no reply. I shake him again; again no reply. I lift his head. I see that horrible sight. And then, mon Dieu! M'sieu le Maire, I lose my senses. I let m'sieu's head drop back on his arms. I fly to the door and I cry 'Murder! murder!' at the top of my voice. What can I say? I remember no more, m'sieu, until the crowd comes. They ask me questions. I can say nothing. They call me fool. What of that? all I wish is to get away as fast as possible; I fly."

      All this the man poured out with the utmost volubility, tossing his arms about, and gesticulating in a manner impossible to any one but a French garçon.

      "And this is all that you know?" inquired the mayor, interrupting this flood of words.

      "Truly, m'sieu, it is all."

      "Then you did not attend upon this table?"

      "Non, m'sieu."

      "Who did, then?"

      "How shall I say, m'sieu? But the garçonss, they are all yonder, and if m'sieu will permit me, I can go and find out."

      "Go then, and return as quickly as possible."

      The man accepted this dismissal, and as he hurried away, the mayor turned to the brigadier and inquired whether he had discovered anything further. The man replied in the negative. Dropping his face in his hands, the mayor again relapsed into silence — a silence for some time unbroken and uninterrupted.

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CHAPTER III.

      WHILE the Mayor of Abois remained silent, evidently lost in the gloomiest of thoughts, struggling with emotions which he seemed to find great difficulty in repressing, the brigadier, respectfully considerate for the feelings of his official superior, stood stiff and rigid, a fine example of obedience and discipline.

      In the meantime Aristide Vis had again picked up the glove, and now he, too, was silent; lost in admiring contemplation. A soft, tender expression stole over his face as he smoothed, with caressing touches, the delicate kid, and breathing gently into the glove, forced it to assume the shape imprinted on it by the beautiful hand it had once incased.

      The look of softness and tenderness deepened upon his face, as, raising the slender trifle, he inhaled the perfume with which it was scented.

      A far-away expression came into his eyes; pleasant memories of the past rose up within him.

      The next moment, by a sudden revulsion of feeling, the expression of his face changed to a look of self-contempt and disgust, and flinging the tiny glove from him with an exertion of force entirely disproportionate to such a fragile object, he turned toward the body of the murdered man, and began a close investigation of the pallid and hideous countenance.

      He had been absorbed in this task for some moments, when suddenly he uttered a loud exclamation, which caused the mayor to raise his head and look up inquiringly, and even infused some animation into the disciplined stolidity of the brigadier.

      "If I am not mistaken, Monsieur le Maire," said Vis, with the utmost gravity, replying to the inquiring glances of the two men, "I have discovered the cause of Monsieur Marrois's death."

      "What?" cried the mayor, springing to his feet and drawing near to the corpse, an example quickly followed by the brigadier, whose curiosity had now gotten beyond the control of discipline.

      "Yes, monsieur," continued Vis; "look here at this mark on the neck of the murdered man!" and he pointed to a spot some two inches below the left ear.

      "That scratch?" exclaimed the mayor, with undisguised astonishment; an astonishment reflected in the eyes of his official subordinate.

      "It is more than a scratch, monsieur. If you look close, you will see that there is a slight puncture."

      "Well, then?"

      "Well then, monsieur, you will observe that all around this puncture the flesh is black and discolored. See, too, the scratch, instead of its edges being angry and inflamed, are of a dull bluish color. Monsieur le Maire," cried the speaker, "as sure as I live, that tiny wound produced this man's death."

      "Then you think ——"

      "I think," interrupted Vis, "that this puncture was made with some poisoned instrument; something very slender and sharp — I should say a needle."

      "I believe monsieur is correct!" excitedly exclaimed the brigadier, now past all power of controlling his feelings. "I believe monsieur is correct, and the more so as this agrees well with what little we know — or, rather, suspect. That scratch, Monsieur le Maire, might easily have been made by the same hand that wore that little glove. I agree with monsieur. I believe this crime was committed by a woman."

      "Oh, no, no! I can never believe it. The idea is too repulsive. And what cause?"

      And the mayor looked interrogatively at the last speaker, who, in answer to his inquiring glance, replied sententiously:

      "Monsieur Marrois was a gallant man. The cause may have been revenge, jealousy, or who knows what. I believe with monsieur, as I said before, that this deed was done by a woman."

      "I think there can be no doubt," said Aristide Vis, joining in. "I have been thinking over the affair, and I will tell you the idea that has occurred to me. I think that this was a rendezvous, and I think the woman came to it prepared to murder this gentleman. Can there be I any doubt of this? If I be correct as to the cause of death, then this murder must have been planned in advance. For you will admit, Monsieur le Maire, that it is scarcely supposable that a woman, under ordinary circumstances, would carry around with her a poisoned instrument capable of inflicting death." He glanced at the mayor, and receiving no reply, went on: "You see the champagne-bottles upon the table? Two of these are entirely, and the third more than one-third, empty. What do I conclude from this? That Monsieur Marrois had been drinking freely, and from the quantity of wine consumed must have been anything but clear-headed; when, taking advantage of his condition, the woman inflicted the fatal scratch. And now, see here, monsieur," continued the young man, drawing the attention of his companions to a spot upon the ground under the table, and just in front of the unoccupied bench; "this woman was deceiving her companion throughout, and while inducing him to drink, with the purpose of intoxicating him, she was emptying her glass here beneath the table."

      "Grand Dieu!" cried the brigadier, who had gone down upon his knees, and with his nose to the ground, was eagerly examining the spot pointed out. "Monsieur is entirely right; the grass is still wet with champagne."

      "Monsieur Vis," said the mayor, "horrible as it seems to me, I am afraid that I must admit the correctness of your conclusion; but, oh! how terrible to think that any woman could deliberately plan and carry out, with such fiendish coolness, a crime like this."

      "I suspect, monsieur, that women can do a great many things, that we, in our innocence, believe them to be incapable of. I am satisfied that my theory of this affair is the true one; and see, here comes proof to support it." And Aristide pointed to the doorway, in which now appeared the form of Antoine Sachard, accompanied by a short man easily recognizable as one of his confrères, and whom he hastily presented to the mayor's attention.

      "This is Baptiste, M'sieu le Maire; Baptiste waited on M'sieu Marrois. He can tell m'sieu all about it."

      "You attended upon this table, Baptiste?"

      "Yes, M'sieu le Maire," answered the second garçon, a short, stout little fellow, who, after his first horrified glance at the corpse of the murdered man, kept his pale face turned away from the body.

      "Come, Baptiste, you will tell me all you know about this affair. Think well; your testimony may be of great importance. When did you first see Monsieur Marrois?"

      The man replied, without any hesitation:

      "I was attending in this part of the garden, M'sieu le Maire, serving refreshments. M'sieu Marrois met me in one of the walks near this place."

      "Was he alone?"

      "No, m'sieu, there was a lady upon his arm."

      The mayor gave a slight start, and looked at Vis, who only replied by a smile. Recovering his composure, the official bade the man, "Go on."

      "Well, m'sieu, M'sieu Marrois asked me if there was not a little arbor somewhere near, in which he and his companion could be alone? I replied in the affirmative, and brought him to this spot, lit the gas, and took his order, which was for champagne."

      "And the woman — what of her?"

      "At that time, I did not notice her closely; but when I returned with the wine, she and M'sieu Marrois were seated on the two benches, opposite each other; and then I noticed her more closely. She was in gray, a silk domino with the capuchin drawn over her head, and her hands — mon Dieu! I could not but notice what beautiful hands they were, incased in gray kid gloves!"

      "But her face, man! — her face?" cried the mayor, excitedly.

      "I never saw it, m'sieu. From beginning to end, whenever I was in the arbor, the lady's face was covered by her mask, but how it may have been when I was absent I cannot say. All I could see was a pair of flashing eyes, so bright, oh, so bright, m'sieu, shining out of the eyeholes of her gray silk mask."

      "You did not hear her voice?"

      "No, m'sieu; toward the last, M'sieu Marrois seemed rather affected by the wine, and when I was here for the last time, was speaking excitedly. But, stop! Now I think of it, m'sieu, the last time I entered the arbor the lady was not upon this bench here opposite, but was seated by the side of M'sieu Marrois, who was pressing her hands, and protesting his devotion in the most ardent manner. I filled the glasses from this third bottle, and left the arbor. That was the last time I came here."

      "And from beginning to end you never saw the lady's face, nor heard her voice?"

      "As I said before, no."

      "Will you tell us, Baptiste," broke in Aristides Vis, "when you saw Monsieur Marrois was pressing the lady's hands, did she have on both her gloves?"

      The man hesitated, and looked inquiringly at the mayor, who replied:

      "You will answer monsieur's questions, Baptiste."

      "Well, then, yes, m'sieu; at the last, when I saw the lady, she had on both gloves."

      "You are sure, Baptiste?"

      "Perfectly sure, m'sieu."

      "One last question," continued Aristide. "Are you absolutely sure that you noticed nothing about the lady's costume except what you have told us? Nothing by which she could be identified from any other woman, wearing a gray domino and mask?"

      The man remained silent for some moments, and then suddenly exclaimed:

      "But, mon Dieu! it is true. The lady had upon her left shoulder a small bow of scarlet ribbon, and — and," he continued, "I also remember her capuchin was fastened at the back with a long golden pin."

      The officials glanced instinctively at Aristide, who seemed entirely unmoved by the information his questions had elicited. Upon the face of the brigadier was an expression of unqualified admiration; whilst upon that of the mayor mingled doubt and astonishment were plainly expressed. No one spoke for some time, until at length a distant clock striking the hour of four recalled the mayor from this reverie.

      "So late?" he cried, with a start; and then, suddenly addressing the garçon: "There, that will do, Baptiste; you can go now. You understand, of course, you will have to repeat this testimony before the judge. You had better be at the 'Hotel de Ville' at twelve. You, Jean," addressing himself to the brigadier, "will remain here, and see to the removal of poor Marrois's body. At the same time try and find out if any one else saw the gray domino. The gatekeeper or the gendarmes on duty at the entrance may have noticed her. And now, monsieur," he said, turning to Vis, "if you will give me your arm we will leave this detestable place."

      Aristide complied with this request, and in silence the two men passed down the walks of the garden and reached the entrance-gate. Thanking his companion for his valuable assistance, and reminding him that the investigation would have to be renewed before the Juge d'Instruction, he bade him good-night.

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CHAPTER IV.

      ON the morning of the day succeeding the tragic death of Pierre Marrois, a gentleman was seated alone at one of the tables in the "Restaurant de France," the most popular establishment of the kind in Abois. The person was tall and spare, a fact noticeable even in his present position. His face was one which undoubtedly could not be called handsome, but yet possessed a certain peculiar attractiveness of its own. Long, and thin; high cheek-bones; a nose shaped somewhat like the bill of a hawk; large, prominent gray eyes; and a mouth whose shape was concealed by a long, drooping mustache. These made up the sum total of a face which possessed a certain grotesque resemblance to that of the illustrious knight of La Mancha — a resemblance increased by an air of melancholy which pervaded the whole countenance. This melancholy, which was especially noticeable in the large gray eyes, did not, however, apparently affect the appetite of the gentleman, who was discussing an excellent breakfast in a manner that proved fully his appreciation of good things. So absorbed was he in the task before him, that he failed to notice a young man, who, entering the restaurant, had approached the table at which he was sitting, until the newcomer, slapping him familiarly on the shoulder, cried out in a laughing voice:

      "Well, of all the wonders in the world, what under heaven, Aristide, could have brought you to Abois?"

      The gentleman addressed was not a whit discomposed, but raising his eyes to the interlocutor, he calmly replied:

      "Ah! my dear Henri, is that you? Well, I suppose it was my fate."

      "You curious creature!" said the person addressed, a tall, handsome young man, with curly black hair, large dark eyes, and erect, easy carriage, which bespoke a military training. "You curious creature! always the same melancholy Don Quixote!" and sinking into a chair which a garçon had placed for him at the opposite side of the table, the young man broke into a merry laugh.

      "Well, my dear Henri, I too might ask what you are doing in this place. It seems to me, the last time I heard of you, you were somewhere near Chalons, and I scarcely suppose you came here to hunt for me."

      "I have the best right in the world to be here," replied the young man. "In the first place, my regiment is quartered here."

      "Ah, yes, I remember now, you are serving with the ——— Hussars."

      "Thanks for remembering it at last. But, besides that, if you will cudgel that brain of yours, which always seems wool-gathering, you may possibly remember, what I think I often told you, that I am a native of this place."

      "Ah, yes! I remember now. You must excuse me, Henri! when I came here first, it seemed to me that I remembered something about it, but I could not recollect exactly what."

      "And may I ask what brought you here, since it appears you did not come to hunt for me?"

      "My dear Dantan, you see in me a hermit, an anchoret."

      "A hermit indeed!" broke in the young man, with a laugh, pointing to the breakfast-table, "And is this your modern asceticism?"

      "It is true, we hermits of the nineteenth century have dispensed with the parched peas of our predecessors, but we are none the less miserable creatures." And Aristide went calmly on munching the leg of a spring chicken, with an expression of the most intense melancholy.

      "And now will you tell me," said Henri Dantan, "what is the meaning of all this nonsense? When we parted, after the siege of Paris, it appears to me, to my best recollection, you had little idea of turning hermit."

      "That is true, my friend; but everything is changed since then."

      "And the cause of this change?"

      "Disgust, my dear Henri; disgust for everything and everybody. Disgust for that blatant beast you call Paris; disgust for that incongruous donkey masquerading in a lion's hide, and dignified with the high-sounding title of the French Republic."

      "Come, now, Aristide, what has the French Republic done to you?"

      "Shall I tell you, my dear friend? Disappointed me, that is all. After the Commune had been put down, and peace restored, I plunged with enthusiasm into what I conceived to be my vocation in life. Shall I tell you what it was? I became a journalist. Alas! my friend, my visions of a free press were soon dissipated, my hopes of fame extinguished almost at their birth. For a while my articles were accepted, and I thought myself fairly on the road to greatness, when I was suddenly abruptly awakened from my dreams. One of my critiques, it seemed, touched a tender point of one of my illustrious legislators. I was admonished of this fact, and advised to strike out the objectionable portions. I refused, and begged to say something about a free press — the right of discussing the character of public men — when I was coolly informed by my editor that all that might sound very nice, but that he was not prepared to be mulcted in damages for libeling one of the Representatives of this great Republic. My vocation was over. I utterly declined to force the eagle of my genius to fly in one direction, like those carrier-pigeons we used during the siege. I told my editor so. He was 'extremely sorry; perhaps another paper,' etc. I tried another paper. The same result. Another, but no better success. I closed my portfolio. I bade Messieurs les Editeurs adieu, and that was the end of my journalistic career."

      Dantan laughed merrily at the mock-heroic manner in which his friend spoke the last words.

      "And after that, my poor Aristide?" he inquired.

      "After that I plunged into the gayeties of Paris. I have, as you know, enough to live on, thanks to the energetic labors of my respected parent in the manufacture of clay pipes. Well, my friend, I soon tired of this gay life, and was beginning to think of settling down, when I met with the greatest misfortune of all. I found myself beginning to be altogether too fond of a woman. What was left me? Nothing but flight. I might defy the Republic, I might abuse the newspapers, I might use my sword against any annoying fellow-man; but a woman! as I said, my friend, there was nothing for it but flight. So one day I packed up my traps, and carefully concealing my departure from every one, I came down here to live, as I told you, the life of a hermit. And that, my dear Henri, is a true history of my life since we parted."

      "A-ah, ah! illustrious St. Anthony! that's where the shoe pinches, is it? And, now I think of it, I seem to remember to have heard your name coupled with that of a certain Madame d'Aubrac, wife of the old general."

      "Widow, my dear Dantan. The old hero departed this life two years ago."

      "That is true. And being the case, will you explain to me why in the name of Heaven you ran away from the pretty widow?"

      "My friend," replied Vis, bending across the table and speaking in a solemn tone, "will you believe me? I began to think of marriage!" and falling back in his chair, he looked as if he expected his companion to be utterly stunned by this disclosure.

      "Ah! ah!" cried Henri Dantan, when at length he was able to control the burst of laughter produced by the ludicrous gravity of his friend. "Still the same droll fellow as when we cooked our bouillon of horseflesh in the trenches around Paris."

      "Just the same, my friend — or, no, I should say grown into an egotist, for here I have been talking for a half-hour of my own affairs, never thinking to inquire what has been your experience of life since we parted."

      "Very simple, indeed," replied Henri Dantan. "When the war was over I was still young enough to enter 'St.-Cyr,' passed my examination, obtained my commission in a good cavalry regiment, and here I am now, a captain, quartered in my native town, and disposed to enjoy myself as much as possible. That is all."

      "And how is it? I thought, with that handsome face of yours, some woman would have had you in her toils long before this."

      "You are forgetting our old confidences, my friend. I have always had a palladium against such dangers. If you try, you may recall the fact, for I know I told it you, that I had been betrothed to my cousin, Henriette Rousel, ever since childhood. And that brings me back to what I should have told you in the beginning. My uncle, Léon Dantan, is mayor of this town; and it was through him, most mysterious of men, that I heard of your presence in Abois."

      "I was just going to ask you," interrupted Aristide, "whether some good angel sent you to me."

      "No. My uncle, as I have said, heard your name, in connection with the horrible affair of last night. And now, my dear fellow, I must tell you, I promised my uncle to bring you to the Hotel de Ville, to give your testimony before the judge who is investigating poor Marrois's murder. And after that I intend to present you to my cousin, and perhaps to another charming young woman."

      "Ah, you call me St. Anthony! Do you intend taking the rôle of the devil, and tempt me?"

      "No, no, you incorrigible misogynist. This young lady, although very charming, will appeal to you more through the ear than the eye, seeing she is an accomplished musician. And I don't suppose you have lost your old passion. But, come, let us be going."

      Accepting his friend's invitation, Aristide Vis settled his bill, and, arm-in-arm, the two friends passed out of the restaurant.

---

CHAPTER V.

      AS THE two friends strolled along the street toward the Hotel de Ville, Vis said, inquiringly, to his companion:

      "You knew this Marrois who was murdered last night?"

      "I should think so. He was senior in the firm in which my father and uncle were partners, and only a few years ago retired from the business, in which he had accumulated a large fortune."

      "But his character, my friend?"

      "He was a sharp, sagacious man in business, not intellectual, it is true; but ——"

      "Pshaw, man! I mean his moral character."

      "Well, my dear friend, it seems hard to say anything against a dead man, but I am afraid I must admit that Pierre Marrois's moral character was anything but good. He was a sensualist, and they tell me there have been several very ugly tales about him."

      "Ah!" exclaimed Aristide; "that might account for the whole affair; and yet and yet, why should your uncle, who must have known Marrois's character well, seem to doubt this solution of the crime?"

      "That is the strangest part of the whole thing," replied Henri Dantan. "I suggested this idea to my uncle after he had related to me what you two had discovered last night — about the woman, I mean. But, for some reason, he did not appear satisfied. Do you know, Aristide, I cannot remove from my mind the impression that my uncle suspects some other cause than a woman's revenge. I never saw him so much discomposed before in my life. He is really completely overcome."

      "You have spoken my own thoughts, my friend, and I will tell you now that I watched your uncle last night very closely, and I am satisfied as you are that he thinks he knows the cause of the murder."

      "Well, I hope the mystery may be solved; and here we are at the Hotel de Ville. Ah, Claude," continued Dantan, calling to a gendarme, who stood near the large entrance to the Town Hall, "is Monsieur Duquesnay in his office?"

      "Yes, Monsieur le Capitaine."

      "Come this way, then, Aristide. I must be your pilot. I am pretty familiar with this place."

      Passing up the broad entrance, the two young men traversed a number of passages, ascended a flight of stairs, and finally arrived at a door in front of which were two gendarmes, and three or four other men, among whom Vis recognized the two garçons, Antoine and Baptiste.

      "Your uncle was inquiring for you, Monsieur le Capitaine," said one of the gendarmes with a respectful salute. "He is within."

      "May we enter?"

      "Certainly, Monsieur le Capitaine." And opening the door, the speaker admitted the two friends.

      The room was plainly furnished, with two or three desks, a number of chairs, a rack upon the wall containing several leather-bound books, and some pegs, upon which were hanging a couple of hats. At one of the desks, the Mayor of Abois was seated in conversation with a gray-haired man, of grave and even stern expression of countenance, and with a broad forehead, which bore the stamp of intellectuality. A third man, who from his appearance was evidently a clerk, was busily engaged in writing at one of the other desks.

      The mayor rose eagerly.

      "Thanks, Henri," he said, "I am glad to see you have found Monsieur Vis. Monsieur Duquesnay, this is the gentleman of whom I have been speaking to you, Monsieur Aristide Vis."

      The two gentlemen acknowledged the introduction.

      "Monsieur le Maire has been explaining to me," said Duquesnay, "the valuable services you rendered him last night. Will you take a chair, monsieur? I am only awaiting the report of the doctor who is examining the body, and will then begin the investigation."

      The two young men accepted the offered chairs, and the judge, resuming his seat, renewed his conversation with the mayor, which was carried on in so low a tone as to be inaudible to the others. Some time elapsed; and Aristide and Captain Dantan were beginning to be rather fatigued, when one of the gendarmes at length opened the door, and announced, "Le Dr. Bulot."

      A small man, with an extremely bald head, smooth-shaven face, and dressed in black, entered the room, and coming forward, shook hands with the mayor and Monsieur Duquesnay.

      "There, Monsieur le Juge," he said, laying a paper upon the desk — "there is my report, and the certificate of death."

      "And in plain language, Monsieur le Docteur," said the Judge, after he had glanced at the report, "you find the cause of Monsieur Marrois's death to be ——?"

      "A punctured wound and scratch on the neck, inflicted by some sharp, slender instrument which had been steeped in poison. You see, I have given the name of the poison in my report. It is an unusual one, seldom met with except among the Eastern nations, and causes death by paralysis, which ensues shortly after the poison has been injected into the body."

      "Thanks, doctor; and those wounds upon the forehead?"

      "Oh, they are nothing; that is to say, merely flesh-wounds."

      The mayor here leaned over and whispered something into the judge's ear.

      "Doctor," said Monsieur Duquesnay, "you have said that this poison causes paralysis; how long would a person remain conscious after the poison had been injected into their system?"

      "Oh, for some time. The brain would be the last to yield."

      "Did you notice the expression of overpowering terror on poor Marrois's face? Could that have been due to the discovery that he had been poisoned?"

      "Scarcely, Monsieur le Juge. As I have told you, the drug is almost insensible in its effects."

      The judge looked inquiringly toward the mayor, who replied with a negative motion of the head, whereupon Monsieur Duquesnay again thanked the doctor, saying they would no longer monopolize his valuable time.

      Dr. Bulot accepted this as a dismissal, and the gendarme who opened the door for his departure received an order from the judge to "bring in Antoine Sachard."

      The testimony of this man was given in very much the same words as has been related in a former chapter. This evidence was taken down by the clerk, and when he had concluded, it was read over to him, and he was requested to sign it. This he did, and retired, giving place to his confrère, Baptiste, who told his story.

      Nothing new was elicited from this witness, except the fact that it was about half-past twelve when Monsieur Marrois and the masked woman first entered the arbor. The garçon was positive of this, as he had noticed the clock in the restaurant when he went for the first bottle of champagne. When Baptiste had finished, the gate-keeper of the garden and the two gendarmes on duty at the entrance were successively examined, but without any result. Neither of them had noticed any particular masker, man or woman.

      "Well," said the judge, when the last gendarme had withdrawn, "this appears to me to be a very hopeless case. We literally have nothing to go on except Baptiste's story of the gray woman and the blood-stained glove."

      "The whole affair is, indeed, very strange," replied the mayor, gravely. "If I could but know the cause!" — he gave a little shudder, and an expression of anxiety and disquiet came over his countenance.

      "The cause! I am afraid, my dear Dantan, that we must seek for the cause in some of the escapades in which, as you know, our poor friend Marrois was but too prone to indulge."

      "Surely you cannot have forgotten poor Delphine Simon?"

      "Ah, Claude! for mercy's sake, do not mention that unfortunate."

      "You are right, it was a sad story. But there, I am detaining your friend, Monsieur Vis, unnecessarily," and turning to Aristide, he began to question him upon his connection with the affair.

      Just as the young man was concluding his testimony the door opened, and two persons entered the room. The first was a tall, thin man, with closely-cropped iron-gray hair and an expression of face that indicated quickness and intelligence. His companion was altogether a more remarkable and noticeable individual. He also was tall and slender, and dressed in a suit of shabby black clothes. His head was crowned with a thick crop of hair, of such intense blackness as plainly indicated that it was indebted to art instead of nature for its color. This was further borne out by a pair of light gray eyes, which assorted very ill with the raven tresses and bushy black whiskers and mustachios which almost entirely concealed their owner's countenance.

      Henri Dantan whispered to Aristide, who had just resumed his seat, "that the first man was the Chef de Police of Abois, but he was unacquainted with his companion."

      However, the identity of the man was soon established, for, upon a look of inquiry from the judge, the Chef said:

      "This, Monsieur le Juge, is the agent just sent down by the Prefecture of Police at Paris, in answer to our telegram."

      "Ah! that is well. And now tell me, Dupont, have you examined Marrois's lodgings, as I bade you?"

      "Yes, Monsieur le Juge."

      "And the result?"

      "Nothing bearing on our affair, monsieur, but this." and taking from his breastpocket a small folded paper, he handed it to the judge.

      It was a sheet of note-paper, upon which was written, in the handwriting of a woman: "At the fête to-night."

      The judge gave a sigh of regret.

      "Still as dark as ever," he said. "This is evidently a disguised hand, and unless the paper has some mark ——"

      "Excuse me, Monsieur le Juge," interrupted the Chef de Police. "I have examined the paper, there is no watermark, and the name of the writer has been cut off."

      "Then for the present we are at a standstill. You gentlemen," continued the judge, turning to the young men, "I need detain no longer. And you, monsieur," he said, to the man with the dyed hair, "can seat yourself at that desk, and my clerk will give you the evidence he has taken down in this case."

      The man obeyed; and as Aristide and his friend rose to leave the room the mayor approached them.

      "I will only say au revoir, Monsieur Vis," he said. "Henri intends taking you to my house, I believe, and I shall have the honor of meeting you there as soon as I can get away from my official duties."

      "Till then, my dear uncle," replied his nephew.

      And the two young men left the judge's office, and were once more in the street.

      "That's a curious-looking fellow, that chap with the dyed hair," said Henri, as they sauntered along.

      "An agent from the Prefecture at Paris is apt to be a curious-looking fellow," replied Aristide. "Those men see more in a year of all that is horrible and vile in humanity than we do in our whole lives. And yet, do you know, that to me there is a sort of fascination in that kind of thing. Will you believe me, Henri? Scores of times I have been tempted to try my hand in that direction. It seems to me, my friend, that there is in me all the powers (as yet undeveloped, it is true) of a Vidocq."

      "Ah, bah! Aristide, here is a chance to use your powers in a much more pleasing manner," and stopping in front of a large, handsome house, he inquired of a domestic, who opened the door in response to his summons, "whether mademoiselle was in."

      The full rich notes of a piano, which came in a flood of melody from some upper portion of the house, seemed to settle the question to the young man's satisfaction, for, without waiting for any reply from the servant, he said:

      "Yes, yes, Tomas, it's all right; I will find Henriette in the music-room. Come along, Aristide," and beckoning his friend to follow, entered the house.

---

CHAPTER VI.

      THE home of the Mayor of Abois everywhere exhibited the evidence of wealth, in conjunction with good taste. There was a simple elegance about the appointments, a richness in the furniture, and all the other accessories, extremely pleasing to the eye. This Aristide acknowledged to himself, as he followed his friend up the broad handsome staircase. The sound of the piano grew every moment more and more loud, and, following this clew, the young men soon reached an open doorway, at which Henri stopped. The room into which the two young men were now looking was a small salon, furnished in the most chaste and delicate style. The furniture was covered with cretonne, of a pale-green ground, upon which were bouquets of exquisite roses; the wall was tinted to match, and adorned with several handsome oil-paintings in richly carved frames. The tables and dwarf bookcases were laden with bric-à-brac and objets d'art. At the far end of the room, immediately opposite the door, a large grand piano was placed, and in front of the instrument a couple of young women were grouped in a pose charming and unstudied. One, seated upon the piano-stool, was evoking the melodious sounds which had guided the young men to that spot; whilst the other, standing by her companion's side, with one arm thrown affectionately around her shoulders, was turning the leaves of the music. The young men were allowed only a short time to enjoy this charming tableau, for they had been but a few moments in the doorway when the music died away in a soft melodious chord.

      "Brava! Brava!" cried Henri. "That was charming, mesdemoiselles."

      The young ladies turned suddenly at this interruption, and revealed two as pretty faces as Aristide had ever looked upon. No more complete contrast could be conceived of than was here exhibited. The one who had been standing, and whose arm was still entwined around the neck of her companion, was a petite brunette, with large liquid brown eyes, full round cheeks as delicately tinged as the downy side of a peach, a nez retroussé, dainty little mouth, and dimpled chin. Her head was crowned with a wealth of dark-brown tresses, which grew low on the white forehead in soft fluffy curls. She was dressed in a plain white mull robe, trimmed with delicate laces, which served to display all the perfections of her rounded form.

      The other was tall and slender, even to fragility. Her dress, a plain black robe, increased the intense pallor of her complexion, and made more vivid the rich scarlet of her lips. The contour of her face was exquisite. The nose and chin as delicately chiseled as a piece of sculpture; the large dark-gray eyes bore an expression of subdued melancholy; and the hair, which was twisted into a large coil at the back of the head, was of that pure blonde tint so seldom met with except among the Northern races.

      "My dear Henriette, permit me to introduce my friend, Monsieur Aristide Vis. Aristide, this is my cousin, Henriette Rousel. And this," continued Dantan, turning to- ward the blonde, "is Mademoiselle Zortichoff."

      "Ah! monsieur," exclaimed Mademoiselle Rousel, acknowledging Aristide's bow, with a charming smile, "we are delighted to meet you. I can assure you that this is not the first time that we have heard your name from Henri. But I was unaware that you were staying at Abois. It is seldom that you Parisian gentlemen stray down to our quiet little town."

      "And in what character do you suppose he has come here now, Henriette?" cried Dantan, with a laugh. "Would you believe, young ladies, that you see before you a veritable hermit, like St. Anthony and those other gentlemen?"

      "But, Henri ——"

      "It is a fact, I assure you, my dear cousin. And where do you think I found this venerable anchoret? Not in a cave, fasting on herbs and water, but seated in the "Restaurant de France," enjoying all the delicacies of Père Dubois's kitchen."

      "And, pray, monsieur," said the laughing Henriette, "what could have induced you to choose such a singular rôle in life?"

      "That's it!" cried Henri, before Aristide could reply; "that's the worst of the whole affair. Would you believe it, Henriette? — my heroic friend ran away from a woman; and a very pretty one to boot."

      "Mademoiselle knows very well that a woman can sometimes be very dangerous," said Aristide. "And a man is not a coward who flees from a danger he feels himself powerless to resist."

      "Well, monsieur," replied Mademoiselle Rousel, as she led the way to a sofa, whilst Henri Dantan remained at the piano conversing in a low tone with the blonde — "well, monsieur, now you have been induced to relax this strictness of your hermit-life, you must allow us to prove that you can enjoy the society of women without any danger to your heart or appetite."

      "I am not so sure of that, mademoiselle, and don't know but what it would be best for me to remain in the solitude of my cave."

      "But tell me, then: this lady from whom you have fled, was she a blonde or brunette?"

      "Can you ask such a question? Could I have the bad taste to admire any but a brunette?" replied Aristide, with a complimentary bow.

      "I am afraid, Monsieur Vis, you are inclined to be a flatterer. What you say is very complimentary to me, but not by any means so to my friend Valiska; and, apropos, is she not charming?"

      "Too charming, mademoiselle, I should think, for you to expose Henri to her fascinations. You know that it has been said that there are two things which a woman cannot safely trust to her dearest female friend — her letters and her lover."

      "Fy for shame, monsieur! You should not try to weaken my faith in my friend. And as for Henri, he is, as you know, almost insane on the subject of music. That is the tie between him and Valiska. And, by-the-by, monsieur, I hope it may cause a similar attachment in your case."

      "Mademoiselle Zortichoff is undoubtedly an exquisite performer, if I am to judge from the little that I have heard; but I still advise you, mademoiselle, to beware of platonic attachments."

      "I shall not listen to you; and, see there, Valiska is about to play, and I am sure that her music is better worth listening to than the voice of any woman, even if she is a brunette;" and, with a sly laugh, Mademoiselle Rousel rose, and, followed by Aristide, approached the piano.

      "Now, my friend," said Henri, "you are going to have a treat. Mademoiselle will give us one of Chopin's Serenades."

      The next moment the rich notes of the piano filled the apartment with entrancing melody. The first feeling of Aristide Vis was one of admiration for the skill of the performer, her delicacy of touch, and the exquisite tenderness with which she rendered Chopin's beautiful composition. Soon, however, a dreamy sense of ecstasy stole over him. His mind seemed lulled into a soft trance-like spell, in which dim visions of past happiness flitted by in quick succession. His eyes involuntarily followed the slender white hands as they moved so deftly over the keyboard of the piano, and, without any exercise of volition, he found himself thinking of another pair of white hands, which had entwined themselves around his heartstrings.

      Unconsciously, whilst absorbed in this delightful reverie, he had been toying with a pair of gloves which, together with a small black hat, lay upon the piano by his side. These remembrances of the past grew more and more powerful, and without being clearly aware of what he was doing, Aristide involuntarily raised one of the tiny black gloves to his lips.

      In a moment all the tenderness of his face died away as suddenly as if Medusa's head had frozen him into a stone. A look of blended fear and horror usurped its place, a shudder ran through his frame, and for a moment it seemed as if the blood stood still in his veins. He looked at the small black glove which he still held in his hand; he looked at the slender white hands moving so swiftly over the ivory keys; he looked at the pale, statuesque beauty of Valiska's face, the large gray eyes filled with a sympathetic softness, as if the soul of the girl was bathed in the delicious harmony of the great master.

      Great God! was he mad? What was this terrible idea that had come upon him? Was it some fiend who had raised this fearful thought in his mind? Again he lifted the glove to his face. No, there could be no doubt, no mistake; he recognized that strange and subtle perfume. Where had he last noticed that peculiar odor? He remembered only too well.

      As if by the spell of a magician, the whole scene arose before him. The little arbor, the ghastly, blood-stained face of the murdered man; the mayor, his face buried in his hands; the stiff, erect figure of the brigadier, and he himself standing there with the small gray kid glove raised to his face, just as he was now holding this black one. He looked closer at the little object.

      Yes, a thousand times yes! Frightful as the idea was, he was forced to admit to himself the similarity between this black glove and the one which Lejeune had picked up in the little arbor of the public garden. Not only was the perfume identical, but the shape, the slim palm, the delicate-tapered fingers, all were there. With the exception of the color, the gloves were the same. He dropped the tiny morsel of kid, as if it had been a burning coal of fire, and his eyes again followed the rapid motion of the two small white hands. Could this be an inspiration — this terrible suspicion which, in spite of himself, held him in its thralldom? Could those delicate hands be in truth stained with the blood of Pierre Marrois? Could that beautiful head, with its sculptured face, the large gray eyes now moist and tender in dreamy sympathy with the soft swell of the music — could that head contain a brain capable of planning and executing so atrocious a deed as the murder of the night before? Was this pale and melancholy girl a Brinvilliers, a Borgia, steeped to her scarlet lips in crime and blood?

      The sudden cessation of the music broke the train of thought, and, moved by an irresistible impulse, which he did not even seek to fathom, Aristide, fixing his eye upon Mademoiselle Zortichoff, to mark the effect of his words, said, abruptly:

      "That was a terrible ending to the fête last night — poor Monsieur Marrois's death. You were there, I suppose, mademoiselle?"

      The young lady gave a sudden start, and for a moment it seemed to Aristide that a look came into her eyes like that of a hunted deer which finds itself discovered by its pursuers — an expression of anxiety and fright painful to behold. The next moment she had covered her face with her hands.

      Aristide was shocked at this seeming confirmation of the terrible suspicion which had been slowly shaping itself in his mind. Could it be fate that had brought him here? Was he to be the avenger of Marrois's murder? And was the frail, delicate girl before him ——?

      He had only reached this point, when he was interrupted. Mademoiselle Zortichoff, recovering by an effort her composure, said, in a low, grave voice:

      "Excuse me, monsieur. You have unknowingly given me great pain. You are perhaps unaware of the fact that poor Monsieur Marrois was a friend — a very kind one indeed — to me and my brother. It was only this morning that we heard of his terrible death. And I confess, monsieur, I have not yet recovered from the shock it gave me."

      The increased pallor of her cheeks, and the sad, reproachful expression in the dark-gray eyes of the speaker, caused a pang of remorse to shoot through the breast of the young man; and before he could recover from it, another crushing blow was given to his suspicions by Henriette Rousel, who said.

      "Oh, but neither Valiska nor I was at the fête, Monsieur Vis, and we not only had the bad taste to stay away ourselves, but we actually succeeded in keeping Henri here as well. I say 'we,' but I am afraid it was rather due to Valiska's music than to any attraction of mine that we owed such a compliment."

      "Mademoiselle must excuse me; I only supposed, like the other young ladies of Abois ——"

      "Come, now," broke in Henri Dantan, "see what you have done, Aristide. Surely, mademoiselle, you are not going to allow the sad remembrance of poor Marrois's death to deprive us of your music?"

      "You must pardon me, Monsieur Dantan," said the young lady, rising; "I have overstaid my time already."

      "Surely, mademoiselle," said Aristide, you will not suffer my sad mistake to deprive us of the pleasure of your company? The punishment will be too great a one. You must, at least, allow me the chance to gain your forgiveness for the pain I have caused you."

      "You are forgiven already, monsieur," replied Mademoiselle Zortichoff, a gentle smile lighting up the sadness of her countenance. "In fact, there is nothing to forgive."

      And turning away, she was bidding Henriette adieu, when Léon Dantan entered the apartment, and approaching the group at the piano, exclaimed:

      "What! going so soon? Mademoiselle Valiska, I had hoped to be in time for some music."

      "Not to-day, Monsieur le Maire. You will excuse me, for I have a lesson to give. Henriette!" she looked at Mademoiselle Rousel, and then bowing to the gentlemen, she left the room in company with her friend.

      "Monsieur," said the mayor, when the three gentlemen were alone, addressing himself to Vis, "that man they sent us up from the Prefecture has gone over all the testimony in relation to Marrois's murder, and his opinion coincides with yours."

      "I am not surprised at that, monsieur. It seems to me to be the only rational one," said Vis. "And the only thing that astonishes me, is that you should have any doubt in the matter. For, pardon me, monsieur, I can see from the expression of your face that you still have a doubt."

      "Well, then, yes; I admit it, and am going to ask a favor of you, Monsieur Vis. Henri, your cousin has not finished her adieus to Mademoiselle Valiska. I have no doubt you will be willing to join in them. The fact is, my dear boy, I wish to have a few minutes' conversation with your friend."

      "Certainly," replied the young man, at the same time leaving the apartment with a haste that proved that this dismissal was not disagreeable to him.

---

CHAPTER VII.

      WHEN his nephew had left the salon the mayor, inviting Aristide to be seated, said, abruptly:

      "Again, monsieur, I see you are right. Though what should have put the idea into your head I cannot imagine. Yes, I do doubt this theory which you have originated. In spite of its plausibility, in spite of any additional weight it may now gain, from the opinion of this man from Paris, I do doubt it."

      "But, monsieur, you must then have some reason; for you will admit, everything points to the woman in the gray domino as the author of the crime!"

      The mayor, who had not seated himself, walked up and down the room before replying. At length he stopped, and said, abruptly:

      "Monsieur, you will pardon me if I seem to be taking a liberty with you, but the rare acumen displayed by you last night has impressed me so strongly, that I desire to ask you a question, which I hope you will consider as entirely private between us two."

      Aristide bowed affirmatively, without making any further reply.

      Monsieur Dantan remained silent for some moments, his eyes fixed upon the face of his companion.

      "Monsieur," he said, at length, "suppose a man bound by an oath to keep a secret, when would that man, in your opinion, be justified in breaking his oath?"

      "I cannot pretend to misunderstand you," said Aristide. "Your question refers to something in connection with the affair of last night. You, perhaps, possess a clew unknown to any one else."

      The mayor seemed to hesitate to reply, and Aristide continued:

      "This is my idea, monsieur. If you know anything that would assist justice to avenge your friend, in my poor opinion you would be justified in violating a dozen oaths."

      The mayor again walked up and down the room twice before replying. At length he burst forth:

      "I will deal frankly with you, monsieur. Ever since I saw poor Marrois's murdered body I have been tortured by the belief that I knew the real cause of the crime; there is not the slightest proof to sustain this, it is only an idea, but one so firmly rooted in my mind that I cannot shake myself loose from its dominion."

      "And this cause, I conceive, has some connection with the secret you have taken an oath to preserve?"

      "It has."

      "Would the revelation of the secret, in your opinion, aid justice to discover the murderer?"

      "That's it, monsieur. As far as I can see, it would be of no assistance. I have thought and thought; I have looked at it from every direction; but cannot see that justice could derive the slightest benefit from my revelation. And then, to be honest with you, Monsieur Vis, this secret is an ugly one; and if made public would bring discredit on the names of a number of persons who, up to the present, have lived respected and honored here in Abois."

      "Will you allow me to ask you a question, Monsieur Dantan? Has the secret anything to do with a woman?"

      "No! Why? Oh, yes, I see; you still adhere to your gray domino."

      "I have never wavered, monsieur, in my belief. I am as certain that it was the masked lady who committed last night's crime as that I see you standing before me."

      "But do you not hesitate before believing that any woman could do such a deed? And then those strange marks upon the forehead, that bloody cross. Have you tried to explain that to yourself, monsieur?"

      "My faith! No! I have not sought to explain anything. I only believe; but I believe as intensely, Monsieur Dantan, as possible. I can see the whole scene before me — your poor friend half-intoxicated, the woman seated by his side, her right hand grasping the poisoned weapon ——"

      "Stop, stop! Monsieur, here comes Henriette. Not a word before her. I can rely on your secrecy?"

      Aristide bowed.

      "Really, monsieur," said Mademoiselle Rousel, as she and her cousin entered the room, "I am half disposed to quarrel with you for the pain you caused my poor Valiska."

      "You cannot suppose, mademoiselle, it was intentional; and, truly, I regret it as much as yourself."

      "I only jested, monsieur. Of course you could not have known that what you said would pain her? But hers is such a hard life, monsieur. I cannot tell you how much I sympathize with her in all her troubles. So young, and yet forced to labor not only for her own support, but for that of an invalid brother and an old and decrepit servant, both of whom are entirely dependent upon her. Ah, it is a beautiful sight to see how nobly she bears up under it all, and should make us idle creatures ashamed to look her in the face!"

      "You are a charming champion, Henriette!" cries Henri. "I hope when I am absent," he said, looking inquiringly toward his uncle, who seemed so immersed in thought as to be almost unconscious of what was passing around him — "I hope when I am absent you are equally ready to defend me."

      "Ah, were you speaking to me?" inquired Léon Dantan, with a start, as if suddenly recalled from the reverie in which he had been plunged.

      "No, no, my dear uncle!" cried Henriette, with a merry laugh. "Henri was only trying to make me admit that I was a defender of all his follies and flirtations. But, my dear cousin, you were asking too much of me."

      The conversation was continued for some time in this jesting tone, the sprightly Henriette rallying and teasing both her cousin and Aristide, who eagerly disclaimed the follies with which she sought to reproach them.

      The appearance of a servant put an end to this badinage. The domestic informed the mayor that a gendarme had been sent by Monsieur Duquesnay to request his immediate presence at that gentleman's office."

      "I hope, my dear Henri," said the uncle, as he rose to obey the summons — "I hope you will prevail on Monsieur Vis to remain and dine with us."

      "Thanks, monsieur," responded Aristide; "but to-day it will be impossible. I have some business."

      "Oh, par exemple!" broke in Captain Dantan, with a laugh. "A hermit with business! I never heard of such incongruity; that is, unless by business you mean praying to your divinity."

      "Oh, but monsieur has run away from his divinity!" cried Mademoiselle Rousel.

      "There, there, Henriette, you must have some mercy!" said the mayor, with a smile. "At least," he continued — "at least I shall have the pleasure of seeing you here on my return?"

      He looked inquiringly at Aristide; but it was Henri who replied for his friend:

      "Yes, yes, uncle! I intend taking him to my room, and I promise that if we begin talking of old times in Paris, he won't be able to tear himself away."

      "Au revoir, then!" The mayor withdrew, and the two young men made their bow to Mademoiselle Rousel.

      "My dear Henri," said Aristide Vis, when the friends were seated alone in the private apartments of the younger Dantan, "I want you to tell me all about this Mademoiselle Zortichoff."

      "Oho, my dear hermit!" replied Henri, with a laugh, as he lit a cigar and pushed the box across to his friend; "so you, too, are yielding to Mademoiselle Valiska's fascinations!"

      "Not at all, my friend. Of course, I cannot but admire her beauty; but, I assure you, it was the settled melancholy, which seems to shadow all her features, that drew my attention to her. I fancy, Henri, hers must have been, or must be, a life of sorrow, if one is to judge from the expression of those gray eyes."

      "And beautiful eyes they are, my Aristide."

      "Yes, I agree with you; the poor girl must know the full meaning of the word suffering. But there! You ask me what I know of Mademoiselle Zortichoff. Very little. I met her for the first time five days ago, when my regiment arrived at Abois. She had been established at this place, so my cousin informed me, for three years. Supports herself by giving music-lessons; lives in a tiny little cottage at the far end of the town, and seems to have no thoughts beyond her music and that invalid brother of hers."

      "But she mentioned that dead man, Monsieur Marrois. It seems he had been very kind to her."

      "Now, my dear friend, you will pardon me, but that poor Marrois had a very bad reputation, and ——"

      "I shall really quarrel with you, Aristide, if you talk like that."

      "Oh, believe me, my friend, I intend no reflection upon your divinity, for I really must say that, to judge from appearances, you are becoming more interested in that quarter than I would like, were I Mademoiselle Rousel."

      "Pshaw! Cannot a young man admire a handsome face without ——"

      "Oh, certainly, if mademoiselle has nothing to say. But why was it that the gay Captain Dantan was not at the fête last night? Am I to suppose that your cousin was the attraction that kept you away?"

      "Well, what would you have? Mademoiselle Valiska dined here yesterday, and Henriette refused to go to the fête, and would not allow me to leave until Mademoiselle Zortichoff returned to her home, which, by-the-by. my dear fellow, I did not regret. I had the pleasure of accompanying the charming creature to her cottage."

      "What! alone?"

      "Oh, no! there was a great hulking fellow who called for her; an old family servant, I believe. He stalked along behind us, stiff as a grenadier on parade. I assure you, my friend, in spite of the Cerberus, I enjoyed the tête-à-tête. The young lady's conversational powers are as perfect as her face, and that you will admit, Aristide, is saying a great deal. I really was so charmed, that, when I left her at her door, I could not make up my mind to go to the fête, although it was only half-past eleven, and I had promised my brother-officers to attend. I returned home, and went to bed; a very lucky thing, as it turned out, for it spared me the sight of poor Marrois's murdered face."

      "Yes, yes," said Aristide, speaking in a musing tone of voice. "It was, indeed, a horrible sight."

      "Tell me, Aristide, do you really believe it was a woman who did the deed?"

      "I fear, my friend, there can be no doubt of it, although this woman seems to have disappeared as entirely as if the earth had opened and swallowed her, leaving no trace behind. For how in the world," he continued, relapsing into his former meditative tone, "are we to trace so unremarkable a thing as a gray domino amongst all that crowd of maskers who attended the fête? What time did you say you parted from Mademoiselle Zortichoff?"

      "A little after half-past eleven. But what in the world has that to do with it?"

      "Nothing at all, my dear Henri," replied Vis. "But, really, I am lapsing into such a gloomy state, I cannot have the heart to bore you any longer."

      "Oh, but you are going to remain until my uncle returns?"

      "No, not to-day. I will have to postpone that pleasure until some future occasion."

      However, Aristide proved to be mistaken, for he had only gone a few steps from the mayor's house, after separating from his friend, when he came suddenly upon Léon Dantan himself returning home.

      "Ah, monsieur!" cried the mayor, excitedly. "What do you think? We have discovered a trace of the gray woman."

      Aristide started.

      "Yes," continued the speaker, apparently not noticing the movement made by the young man "yes, we have found the fiacre that took her to the fête. The driver describes her appearance perfectly, and noticed especially the beauty of her hands. Do you know, monsieur, that if this woman is ever discovered, those same little hands will be the cause of her capture."

      "But where did the driver pick this woman up?" inquired Aristide. "That should enable you to ascertain her identity."

      "There is the trouble, my friend. We scarcely get a glimpse of light before everything is again cloudy. All that the driver can say is that he was engaged by a tall man, whose face was so wrapped up as to be unrecognizable. He (the driver) was to call at a certain corner, where he would find a fare awaiting him. The fiacre was driven to the corner mentioned. A woman in a gray domino was walking excitedly up and down the pavement. She entered, and was driven to the garden, and that is all the man knows. The place at which the masker took the fiacre was at the corner of Rue Magenta and Rue d'Orville."

      "Had the cocher any idea of what time it was when he picked up the masked woman?"

      "Oh, yes; he was very clear on that point. It seems he was about leaving the cab stand for the night, when he was accosted by the disguised man, who engaged him. He looked at his watch, and seeing it wanted a few minutes to twelve, told the man the charge would be an extra. This was agreed to."

      "And at what time did he reach the garden?"

      "It was scarcely a quarter past twelve. The driver is a thoroughly reliable man, Monsieur Vis. But excuse me. This wretched affair runs in my head so, that I forget everything else. I certainly expected the pleasure of your company at dinner."

      "For to-day? Monsieur le Maire, it is impossible."

      Without another word the gentlemen separated, and so absorbed was the mayor in turning over in his mind the recently discovered evidence, that he was entirely oblivious to the intense emotion which his last words had excited in his companion.

(To be continued.)

THE DEATH-MARK. — "THE PALLID HUE OF VALISKA'S CHEEK DEEPENED TO A GHASTLY WHITENESS, SHE STRUGGLED FOR ONE MOMENT, AS IF GASPING FOR BREATH, AND WITH A LOW GROAN SHE FELL BACK IN HER CHAIR."

      IT was the fourth day after the events narrated in the preceding chapter. Two days before, the body of Pierre Marrois had been committed to its last resting-place in the Cemetery of "St. Jean." The funeral had been a public apotheosis — charity for the dead had cast its mantle of forgetfulness over some ugly blots on the past record of the deceased, in consideration of his sudden and awful death. All Abois had turned out to do honor to the memory of the murdered man. But all that was now over; Pierre Marrois rested peacefully beneath the green mound in the cemetery, and affairs in Abois had resumed their usual channels.

      In the salon of a small cottage, situated on the outskirts of the town, Aristide Vis was pacing up and down in a restless and disquieted manner. The room presented a picture of comfort. The table was heaped with books; the wall hung with handsome engravings, and luxurious chairs and sofas were scattered in every direction. Through a large bay window the green lawn in front of the cottage was visible, stretching down toward the banks of the little river which skirted the town of Abois. All these pleasant surroundings seemed, however, at least for the time, to have no effect on the mind of Aristide. He stalked up and down the room, muttering to himself; his face gloomy and depressed, and his whole appearance that of one who struggles vainly against some overpowering emotion.

      "It's no use," he burst out at length; "I have raised a devil beyond my power to control. Oh, what a fool you were, my friend Aristide, when you came down to this infernal hole! What in the world was Pierre Marrois to you, that Fate should have singled you out to be mixed up in this abominable affair? It's no use saying to myself that I am simply crazy, although that would be every one's opinion, I suppose. I know what I'll do," he continued, after a moment's silence; "I'll shake the dust of this accursed place off my heels as soon as possible. I will leave here to-day. I wish to heaven I had never come. But have I a right to do so," he went on. "Suppose I am the only one who holds the clew to this terrible crime, would I be doing my duty if I let justice remain blinded to the murderer? But, then, to hunt down such a poor weak quarry, where would be the honor in such a chase? You miserable Aristide. Oh, to the devil with the whole thing; it is not my business. Let those attend to it whose duty it is ——" A knock interrupted this soliloquy, and at the same moment the door opened and Captain Dantan entered the room.

      "Well, you sulky, ill-mannered creature," cried the visitor, "is this the way you treat your friends? Here have four days passed, and none of us seen anything of you. Will you please explain what you have been doing all this time?"

      "Henri, my friend, you must excuse me. I have only been keeping up my character, and remaining en retraite."

      "Well, all I say is, you do not deserve the anxiety that every one expresses regarding you."

      "And may I ask who every one is in this case?"

      "Oh, any quantity of persons, my melancholy friend; but chiefly — well, first, Mademoiselle Zortichoff and my cousin Henriette.

      Aristide gave a slight start, and then said, gravely:

      "So Mademoiselle Zortichoff interests herself about me?"

      "Yes, you lucky fellow. I am sure I wish she would do the same thing for me. You see the poor girl has the fixed idea in her mind, put there, believe, chiefly through Henriette's chatter, that she is the cause of your absenting yourself from my uncle's house."

      "But, no ——"

      "Oh, I told her that was all nonsense, and Henriette did all she could to aid me in convincing her; but, in spite of everything, we could not satisfy the young lady, and at length I promised to bring you in person to quiet her doubts; so you can just get ready at once. I left my cousin at Mademoiselle Valiska's cottage, and promised to return there as soon as I could find you."

      "I am sure, Henri, I am extremely obliged to Mademoiselle Zortichoff for her anxiety; but, as I am leaving Abois at once, it will be impossible."

      "Nonsense, man; you shall do nothing of the sort. I believe this solitary life of yours will end by turning you into a candidate for 'Charenton.' Instead of leaving Abois, you will come with me to the cottage of the charming Valiska. I won't take any excuse. As to business, of course that's out of the question. There, off with your robe de chambre, and get yourself into visiting toilet at once."

      Aristide remained silent for a few moments, as if immersed in thought; then suddenly exclaimed, in a grave, solemn tone:

      "Well, then, yes; I will go with you, my friend, since you wish it, but never reproach me hereafter, for whatever may be the result of this visit ——"

      "Upon my word, if that isn't the strangest way to accept an invitation to visit a beautiful woman. My poor friend, you must take better care of that brain of yours. What you need is society. You mope, my Aristide. I will make Henriette read you a lecture. But there, get yourself ready."

      Aristide withdrew to an inner room to make his toilet. Soon returning, he and Captain Dantan left the hermitage, and set out on their walk. The two strolled along under the green trees that shaded the pavement of the street. Henri said:

      "I am astonished, my mysterious friend, that you have not inquired how I managed to discover your den, for you may perhaps remember that you omitted to give me your address."

      "Did I?" replied Aristide, still grave and preoccupied. "Oh, yes; so I did."

      "Indeed you did; and I am indebted for the discovery to the same charming person to whom you owe the invitation which we are now on our way to fulfill."

      "What! Mademoiselle Valiska?"

      "Yes; you may well look surprised; but the whole thing is very simple. Although you are not aware of it, it is, nevertheless, a fact that Mademoiselle Zortichoff is a neighbor of yours, and it seems, illustrious hermit, that you are not unknown in your own neighborhood."

      "And so," muttered Vis, half to himself and half to his companion, "mademoiselle has been inquiring about me. She seems suddenly to have taken a great interest in my affairs. I wonder if I could guess the cause?"

      "I am sure I don't know; but, whatever it may be, you should certainly esteem yourself very lucky. I declare again I wish she would display the same interest toward me. But see, we are approaching mademoiselle's abode. Do you see that brick wall? Well, my boy, that is the outwork which defends the castle of the divine Valiska."

      "What, there?" cried Aristide. "And this street — is it not the Rue d'Orville?"

      "To be sure. Have you any objection?" said Captain Dantan, smiling at the grave expression of his friend's face.

      The other made no reply, and the next moment they stopped before a door, let into a high brick wall, whose top was garnished with terrible chevaux-de-frise of broken bottles.

      "The divinity is well defended, you see!" cried Henri. "It would not be an easy matter to scale the wall, and this door will stand a siege. And here comes the garrison. Observe him close, close, my friend, and tell me if he looks like a creature upon whom one could attempt to play any joke."

      Whilst the young men were still speaking the door was opened. The appearance of the person who stood in the doorway was indeed calculated to impress even the most casual observer. He was tall, over six feet in height, and his broad shoulders and massive limbs seemed to indicate him to be possessed of vast physical strength.

      The head, however, upon this stalwart trunk was that of an old man. The hair, which fell down to the shoulders in rough abundance, was white as snow. Bushy gray eyebrows overhung two eyes, deeply set in their cavernous recesses. The lower part of the face was hidden by a beard, which reached far down the man's breast, and rivaled in color the whiteness of his hair.

      Added to this, the face had been frightfully mutilated. An immense scar, the result of some desperate wound, traversed the entire visage, reaching from the right forehead across the nose and down to the left corner of the mouth.

      The contraction of the muscles of the face, produced by the wound in healing, had given a cast of grotesque hideousness to the whole countenance. The man's costume was equally strange, consisting of a sort of blouse of blue serge, unbelted at the waist, and falling almost to the knee. Dark pantaloons of some rough material were thrust into a pair of huge boots, which came up almost as high as the blouse.

      In response to Captain Dantan's inquiry, this strange apparition replied that Mademoiselle Valiska was within, and awaiting the gentlemen. The man's French was correct, but spoken with a strong foreign accent.

      Crossing a small and badly kept garden, the old man led the way to the entrance-door. The residence of Mademoiselle Zortichoff was a brick cottage, one story in height, with an ancient mansard roof, faced with dark-blue tiles. Everything about the house indicated the straitened means of its occupant. The hall into which the young men were shown was bare and uncarpeted, though some attempt had been made to cover this deficiency by staining and waxing the floor. An old-fashioned sofa and two chairs were the only furniture. All this Aristide took in at a glance as the old servant, opening a side door, announced, "Les Messieurs."

      The room into which they were now ushered was a salon, as meagre in its adornments as the hall itself. The furniture was of the simplest kind — the floor covered by a cheap carpet and the walls plainly papered. Only two articles in the chamber were in any way remarkable. One of these was a large, handsomely-carved piano, which almost filled one side of the apartment; the other, a painting which hung over the mantel, opposite the doorway, and was concealed from view by curtains of blue silk tightly drawn across it.

      Henriette Rousel and Mademoiselle Zortichoff were not the only occupants of the salon. Seated in a large fauteuil with a high back was a third person, whom Aristide at once set down as Valiska's invalid brother. A conclusion which could not be doubted after a single glance at the face; the likeness between the brother and sister was absolutely startling, the only difference being that what was a charming pallor in the sister became a livid whiteness in the complexion of the brother. Deep blue circles were visible around the large gray eyes of the invalid, and the rich color of the lips was dimmed to a dull, dingy red. The face was entirely destitute of either mustache or beard, which gave a feminine cast to the whole countenance. It was, in truth, Valiska's face, sharpened by pain and suffering. A black skull-cap covered the head, and was drawn down so as to entirely conceal the hair. The thin attenuated form was clothed in a black robe de chambre, and a dark shawl was thrown across the fauteuil, concealing the hands and lower limbs of the invalid.

      "Monsieur," said the mistress of the house, as she came forward to receive Aristide, "I am pleased to see that Captain Dantan has been able to induce you to come to us. I almost feared that I had offended you by my abruptness ——"

      "My dear Valiska," broke in Henriette Rousel, "don't flatter Monsieur Vis by any further excuses. I am sure I did nothing to offend him, and yet he has treated me as shabbily as yourself. Come, Mr. Hermit, you owe us both an apology."

      "Which I hasten to pay, mademoiselle. The truth is, I sometimes become so dull and depressed, so gloomy and melancholy, as really to be unfit company for anybody but myself, and whenever I have these spells I always hide myself away."

      "There, there, monsieur, you are forgiven. I bear you no malice, and Valiska is too good-natured to harbor enmity."

      "Certainly not, Henriette; but I forget. You must allow me, monsieur, to present to you my brother. Sergius, this is Monsieur Vis."

      The invalid, who up to this time had seemed scarcely conscious of the presence of the visitors, now looked up, acknowledged his sister's introduction by a few polite and courteous words, and then, as if even this slight exertion was too powerful for his enfeebled health, he relapsed again into silence.

      The conversation became general, and after some time Captain Dantan begged Mademoiselle Valiska to favor them with some music, a request which she complied with immediately.

      No sooner had she seated herself at the piano than Aristide found himself, as it were, carried back to the day when they had first met. The same idea which had then so horrified him now came stealing back as he watched the motion of the slender white hands, and eagerly studied the pale countenance and large, dreamy eyes. It seemed to him that the girl's face was thinner — the complexion even more pallid — than before.

      "Poor Valiska," said Henriette, as if in answer to his thoughts. "She has not been well these last days; her brother has been suffering, and Valiska is his only nurse. But come here, Monsieur Vis; I wish to show you something which I think will please you."

      She led the way to the mantel, and drew aside the silk curtains which concealed the picture. It was an oil painting, the full-length figure of a woman, clothed in what Aristide at first supposed to be a fancy costume. A fur cap crowned the head, and the dark dress was trimmed and edged with the same material; the robe was short, revealing the small feet in black leather boots and scarlet stockings. The face was wondrously beautiful, and it needed but a glance to recognize the strong resemblance which the portrait bore to Valiska Zortichoff.

      "Well, monsieur, what do you think of it?" said Henriette Rousel, seeing that Aristide, absorbed in his contemplation of the picture, showed no disposition to speak.

      "It is Mademoiselle Valiska, and yet ——"

      "It is indeed like Valiska, but it is really her mother. Was she not a beautiful woman? That is her national costume. She was a Russian, you know."

      "But what is this strange inscription, mademoiselle?" said Vis, pointing to a word roughly painted in red characters across the lower portion of the picture.

      "I believe that a Russian word. Valiska says it means 'Remember.'"

      At this moment the music ceased, and Sergius Zortichoff, who had been apparently absorbed in a dreamy reverie, suddenly looked up, and observing Aristide and Mademoiselle Rousel, said, abruptly:

      "Ah, monsieur, you are admiring my mother's picture; was she not beautiful? Ah, hers was a terrible fate, a terrible fate ——"

      "Sergius!" cried Valiska, who had turned from the piano at the sound of her brother's voice, and now came hastily toward him, her face pale as death and her whole countenance exhibiting traces of the strongest emotion, which she vainly sought to repress. "Sergius!"

      "I know, my dear sister, your tender nature; but what does that word say? 'Remember'! and I, at least," continued the invalid, his gray eyes flashing like coals of fire — "I will always remember her."

      "Sergius!" again repeated Mademoiselle Zortichoff, in a voice of entreaty.

      "No, no; why should I not speak of her? Look, Captain Dantan," he continued, suddenly addressing himself to Henri. "Look at that beautiful face! You shall hear my poor mother's terrible fate!"

      "Oh, Sergius, I can never listen ——"

      "Peace, Valiska; it must be so."

      The young man had now apparently worked himself into a fit of intense excitement. Two bright spots of color burned upon his pallid cheeks, and his lips trembled convulsively. Valiska, entirely overcome, sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands. Vainly did Aristide and Henri endeavor to quiet the young man. He paid no attention to their entreaties, and, oblivious of Henriette Rousel's frightened face, he went on excitedly:

      "Yes, you shall hear my mother's story, and that, too, not from me, not from Valiska, but from one who was an eye-witness of her suffering and death. Orloff! Orloff!" he cried, in a loud voice; and as if by magic the door of the salon was instantly opened, in response to his call, and the tall, uncouth form of the servant appeared in the doorway.

---

CHAPTER IX.

      THE intense, the almost overpowering, agitation of Mademoiselle Zortichoff was plainly imprinted on her pallid features, as, with nervously-clasped hands, quivering lips, and a piteous, imploring expression in her dark-gray eye, she hung in mute suspense upon her brother's words.

      This pitiful look produced an instantaneous effect upon the tender-hearted Captain Dantan, who hastened to interfere for the purpose of putting an end to the disagreeable situation.

      "Excuse me, Monsieur Zortichoff," he said, in a somewhat stern voice. "You appear to be unaware of the pain you are causing your sister. Let me entreat you to continue this subject no longer."

      "Yes, yes, Monsieur Sergius!" cried the sympathetic Henriette, joining in with her cousin. See how pale poor Valiska has become. Pray don't say anything more."

      As for Aristide Vis, he felt himself involved in a web of mystery which he was utterly unable to break through, and recognizing his helplessness, he ceased to struggle, and allowed himself to be borne along on the current of events.

      The invalid appeared entirely oblivious of the words of the speakers. Fixing his eyes upon his sister, he spoke some words in a foreign language, which Aristide conjectured from the sound to be Russian.

      The effect was instantaneous. Valiska's face became so white, and she trembled so violently, that, fearing she was about to faint, Henri sprang forward to her assistance; but ere he could reach her side, by a powerful effort she had regained her composure, and, with one hand pressed to her heart, she signed to him to resume his seat."

      "Pardon me, Captain Dantan," she said, when at length she was able to speak. "Pardon me, Henriette; my brother is right. Have pity upon my weakness. You, your uncle, and that unfortunate Monsieur Marrois ——"

      She paused, and slightly shuddered, and then, after a moment, went on:

      "You are our only friends, and it is right that you should hear our painful story. Go on, Sergius."

      All this was said in a way that plainly indicated the strong effort of the girl to control her emotions. Her brother, however, seemed not to notice this struggle, and tuning to the servant, who stood in the doorway, as stiff and rigid as a soldier upon parade, he said:

      "Speak, Orloff Ivanovich, speak! Tell the noble Captain Dantan and his cousin, Mademoiselle Rousel, the miserable fate of our unhappy parent. Speak, I say!"

      The young man's words produced a strange and startling effect. The grim servitor exchanged his look of stolidity for one that was almost terrible. His face became white as death, which made more apparent the disfiguring scar, whose angry red line seemed a vivid scarlet by contrast with the pallor of his cheek. His eyes flashed fire, and the whites became injected with blood, like those of an infuriated wild beast. The whole countenance was so appalling, that Henriette could not repress a little cry; and even Aristide, the immovable, felt a chilliness at the heart as he beheld the demoniacal expression of that hideous countenance.

      A word from Sergius, in his native language, smoothed away this frightful mask as quickly as a sponge erases the marks from a slate. The old look of dogged stolidity returned to the man's face, as, at a sign from his master, in a deep growling voice he began his story.

      "When the noble lady, Paulovna Schouvaleff, placed her little daughter Vera in the arms of my wife, and said, 'Katinka, here is your foster-child,' I was a proud and honored man. From generation to generation my family had served the House of Schouvaleff, and now my wife was selected as the foster-mother of the last of the family. My life had not been a bright one. One by one children had been born to me, only to die just when they began to prattle my name, and now that my wife and myself had given up all hope that any children would survive to console us in our old age, here were we selected to rear the only offspring that Providence had bestowed upon our noble master.

      "The care that we lavished upon our little Vera I will not speak of; she was our all in all, and we tended her like a delicate flower, and like a flower she grew day by day more and more beautiful.

      "As the years passed by our little foster-daughter became only dearer to us, and it was with an aching heart that we surrendered her to the care of others.

      "When it became necessary that she should be taken away from the old estate to be educated at a fine school in the neighboring city, we were very unhappy, my wife and I, after our child's departure. But when she returned in the Summer, looking as sweet and fresh as a wild-rose, joy returned with her to us again.

      "Well, the years went by, and then came a hard blow to me, a hard blow indeed;" he heaved a deep sigh, and then resumed his story. "My wife Katinka sickened, and after a long illness died, and I was left all alone in the world." The old man stopped, and seemed for the moment swallowed up in memories of the past.

      "No, not all alone, for my Vera was left to me, and now all my affection was centred in her. I watched her year after year, following her around the old place like a protecting dog. I saw her grow taller and taller, more and more beautiful.

      "One day a change came to this quiet life. It was after a gay Winter spent in St. Petersburg that, on her return, I first noticed a new expression in her lovely eyes. I had not long to wait for an explanation of this change. My Vera came to me, and with her cheeks stained with blushes, told me that she was to marry the noble Count Zortichoff.

      "'But, oh, my father,' she cried, 'do not imagine that this will lessen my love for you. Instead of one child you will now have two. That is all.'

      "After this I waited with impatience to see the man whom my Vera had chosen. And when my eyes first beheld Paul Zortichoff, I said to myself that my daughter had chosen wisely.' He was as fine a fellow as one would care to look upon, and a soldier, too, just as every man should be. My heart went out to him in the moment when he shook my hand and said:

      ""Orloff, you have been a father to my Vera; you must let me be a son to you.'

      "Well, they were married, and I followed them to the distant city in which Count Paul's regiment was stationed; and there, not to be separated from them, I took service in the count's troop. Everything went on happily for many years, and beautiful children had come to bless their life, and recall to me the remembrance of my youth. And then — and then — "the old man paused, and brushed away a tear from his eye — "and then came a change. The count's regiment received orders to prepare for a campaign against ——"

      "It was against one of the savage Tartar tribes — the barbarous Calmucks!" cried Sergius Zortichoff, breaking in upon the narrative. "It was against no civilized men, but barbarous, blood-thirsty savages, that my father went to war. Was it not, Orloff?" he cried, excitedly, a flush deepening on his cheek, and the angry light in his eye growing still brighter.

      "It was, my master," replied the old man.

      "Oh, with what tears did my foster-daughter hang around the neck of her husband on the day of our sad departure, when she stood in the doorway to bid us adieu as the regiment filed by.

      "It seemed as if something warned her that this campaign would bring her misfortune. And her last words to me were, 'Watch over him, Orloff, for it is my life you are protecting.'

      "The campaign was a short one, and the regiment distinguished itself greatly.

      "My master and myself passed through every fight without a scratch down to the very last. The Tartar tribe was broken, and dispersed in every direction, and our regiment, divided into little troops, was scattered in pursuit of the fugitives.

      "Count Paul had command of one of these parties, and most vigorous in pressing the pursuit. Skirmishes were of daily occurrence, and so far had always been favorable to our side. I began to think that my Vera's prayer was a shield to protect her husband.

      "But, alas, alas! I was soon undeceived. One day, as we were riding along a road, the head of our column was suddenly attacked by a large body of the enemy.

      "My master had but one idea, and that was to charge, and at a gallop we rode down upon the foe. They waited for us coolly and deliberately, and poured in a heavy fire upon us.

      "The next moment we were engaged hand-to-hand. It was as much as I could do to defend myself; but during the whole time I never took my eyes off my master.

      "Suddenly I saw him reel in his saddle, and throw up his arms, and what followed I never knew, for at the same moment I felt a heavy blow upon the head; everything turned dark before my eyes, and I fell senseless to the ground.

      "How long I lay unconscious I cannot say, but when I recovered my faculties, my first thought was for my poor master. My wound was a sabre-cut on the head, and this I managed to bandage with my handkerchief.

      "On looking around me I perceived a number of our men lying upon the ground; but all of them were dead, and when I discovered my master's body, I thought he, too, was no more. A bullet had pierced his breast, and the blood was flowing in a crimson stream from the wound.

      "I made an effort to stanch the flow, and at length, to my joy, I succeeded, and soon noticed some signs of returning consciousness. Immediate assistance was absolutely necessary, and perceiving in the distance that the country was inhabited, in spite of my wound I raised the count in my arms and hastened away in the direction in which I thought help might be obtained.

      "I had staggered along for some time, sustained by the thought of how my Vera would bless me for what I was doing, when suddenly, just as I drew near a clump of bushes, they separated, and five men made their appearance. They were all armed, and I could see they were Tartars; but thinking that even they would have pity on two wounded soldiers, I called out to them for help.

      "They made no reply, but signed to me to follow them, which I did as well as I was able, still carrying my master's helpless body in my arms. After going for some distance they turned into a narrow path which led through the bushes, and finally brought us to a small clearing, in which stood a ruined and dilapidated hut, surrounded by two or three tall trees.

      "On reaching this cabin I again spoke to them, and tried to make them understand how necessary it was that my master should have immediate assistance. They made no reply, but pushed me into the hut and closed the door.

      "Seeing I could obtain no help from these savages, I set about examining the count's wound myself. The bandage had remained secure, and the blood had ceased to flow. I began to hope. I was aroused from my task by the voices of my captors, who seemed engaged in a serious altercation. They had gathered around a small fire, for the night had drawn on, and were earnestly arguing some question. I listened to hear what might be the subject of dispute. Imagine my horror when I understood that the question which they were debating was the life or death of myself and poor master.

      "The odds were strongly against us. Four of the wretches, with angry and inflamed looks, demanded our instant death, while one alone stood out for mercy. I could see the hideous faces of the savages as they stirred each other up by lying stories of the atrocities committed by our soldiers. Those faces burned themselves into my brain, and I see them now, I see them always. They crowd around me like demons, with bloodshot, ferocious eyes, like hungry wolves wrangling over the body of a helpless traveler."

      His deep emotion again brought a pause to Orloff's tale. Again Aristide saw that terrible look which he had noticed before flit across the old man's face. His chest heaved convulsively, and he grasped wildly for breath. The soothing voice of Sergius Zortichoff calmed his excitement.

      "I hung in anxious suspense." he continued, "on the debate. For myself it mattered little. Few would miss me, few lament me. But my master — the thought of Vera and the children made my blood run cold. Our only champion, the one man who had argued in favor of mercy, grew weaker and weaker in our defense, over­powered by the angry fury of the other four.

      "At length this fury seemed to become uncontrollable, and springing to their feet, they all rushed into the cabin. I felt that my last moment had come, but even then I tried to keep my promise to Vera. I begged the savages to take my life if they must have a victim, but to spare my master. I promised them money, I used every inducement I could think of.

      "Alas! they paid no attention to my prayers and entreaties, but seizing me roughly by the shoulders, they quickly bound my arms behind my back. I tried to say a prayer, and closed my eyes in expectation of instant death. But, no; death would have been a mercy to what I was about to suffer.

      "I saw the furious wretches drag my wounded and helpless master from the hut. Another moment, and a rope was fastened around his inanimate neck, the end thrown over the limb of a tree.

      "The sight aroused a frenzy within me — this indignity offered to a wounded soldier, a helpless, half-dying man; to my Vera's husband, the father of her children.

      "I seemed to feel suddenly within me the strength of ten men. By a violent effort I freed my arms, and, unarmed as I was, I sprang upon the cowardly murderers. My hand was on the throat of the foremost of the band. Oh, God! I suddenly felt a burning pain shoot through my breast. I heard a loud and deafening explosion, and then I knew no more."

      "You hear, Captain Dantan! You hear!" cried Sergius, whose agitation and excitement was equaled to that of Orloff's. "You hear!" he repeated, his eyes flashing like coals of fire, and his lips quivering nervously. "My poor father was murdered — yes, murdered by those savage Tartars; murdered as cruelly as our poor friend Monsieur Marrois. No, no, Valiska," he said, as his sister stretched out her slender hands entreatingly toward him. "I know what you said: that we should forgive our enemies; but they were savages — barbarous savages — and I can never forgive them."

      The agitation of the youth seemed to communicate itself to the old servant. His huge hands grasped the tall back of the invalid's fauteuil on which he was leaning, as if it had been the throats of his enemies and he were wrenching out the last gasping breath of the murderers.

      "Ma foi!" said Aristide to himself. "I should not like to have those fingers of yours around neck, my friend."

      Captain Dantan said nothing, but he, too, appeared impressed by the ferocity of the old man's countenance. It was some time before Orloff was able to overcome his passion sufficiently to continue.

      "How long I lay there," Orloff went on, "I never knew. Once, as it seemed to me, sense returned for a few moments. I looked around. It was night — dark night. I was all alone. No, not all alone. A ray of moonlight, breaking through the thick branches of a tree, showed me a dim, shadowy form suspended from one of the branches.

      The sight nerved me to desperation. I made a frantic effort to rise. It was vain. My struggles only served to reopen my wound, and loss of blood again deprived me of consciousness. It was in a very different place that I found myself when my eyes once more reopened upon life.

      "I was no longer in the open country, but lying upon a small pallet in a little room. An old woman was seated by my side, and her costume and appearance, as well as that of the apartment, satisfied me that I must be in a peasant's cottage.

      "It was not till many days afterward that I acquired sufficient strength to question this kind woman. Imagine my feelings when she informed me that I had been for over two months an inmate of her house. Closer questioned, she told me the whole story. She had, in passing with her little cart through the forest, found me lying, wounded and apparently dead, at the foot of the tree, from which the body of my master still hung. Searching my person, with the desire to find out who I was, she discovered that I was not dead.

      "The cool night-air had stopped the flow of blood from my wound, and after bandaging it securely, she managed to lift me into the cart, and drove me to her cottage, which she said was some five or six miles from the spot where I had been lying.

      "I eagerly asked for my master; but all she could say was that the man hanging from the tree was quite dead, and seeing she could be of no assistance to him, she had turned all her attention to me, whose life it had appeared possible to save. I groaned with horror, as all the incidents of that time came thick upon me, while listening to the old woman's story. Life seemed valueless to me. How could I ever go back and face my mistress after keeping so badly the promise I had made her?

      "In my anguish I prayed that death might come, and put an end to my suffering; but, no; instead I grew stronger and stronger every day, and soon I was able to creep around.

      "My first act was to hasten to that old deserted hut. Alas! no sign remained of the awful tragedy. My master's body had disappeared. The country swarmed with the enemy, and I was obliged to be very careful to avoid discovery. Thanks to the old peasant-woman, I succeeded in concealing myself until such time as I was able, with a heavy and broken heart, to start on my journey homeward. My one thought during the long days of travel, was how I should tell my mournful story to my poor Vera.

      "But ah! I had forgotten the time which had elapsed. The unfortunate news had traveled fast, and on my arrival at home, I found that I was too late to break the melancholy tidings to my foster-daughter. Some one had unthinkingly communicated the awful story of her bereavement to the poor girl. Without preparation, and overpowered by the shock, she had fallen a victim to the violence of her excitement, and when my child appeared before me, I saw at once that the light of reason had filed from her lovely gray eyes."

      Orloff stopped, and covering his eyes with his hands, burst into tears.

      The emotion of the old man was reflected in the pallid face and quivering lips of Valiska, and in the convulsed and agitated features of her brother.

      A painful pause ensued. At length, hearing a deep sigh, Orloff wiped away his tears, and resumed:

      "Little is left to tell. The days passed by, and grew into weeks and months; but my Vera never recovered her mind.

      "Little by little she grew weaker and weaker, fading slowly away from me and her poor helpless children.

      "At length came a day when we crowded around her bed, to hear the last words of our dear one.

      "Sense had returned to her with the approach of death, and in her last moments she made us vow always to remember her unhappy fate, and that of her murdered husband. And then — and then — she died."

      The pallid hue of Valiska's cheek deepened to a ghastly whiteness, her bosom heaved convulsively, she struggled for one moment, as if gasping for breath, and with a low groan she fell back in her chair.

      Henri sprang forward to her assistance, but before he could touch her, Orloff, with a savage growl, pushed him rudely aside, and raised the girl's slight form in his strong arms.

      This motion seemed to recall for a moment consciousness. Her large gray eyes opened, and she gazed wildly around her.

      "No, no," she moaned, in a pitiful, beseeching tone; "no, no, not him!"

      Her head fell back upon Orloff's shoulder, and with a deep sigh she again became unconscious.

      The old man hastened to bear his feeble burden from the room. Some moments of an oppressing silence ensued, unbroken by any one.

      The handsome face of Captain Dantan plainly bespoke his anger at the rudeness of Orloff, and Henriette kept her eyes on the door, as if she were eager to hasten to the assistance of her suffering friend.

      The invalid appeared oblivious to the presence of anyone. His eyes were fixed in a wild and vacant stare, and his lips moved tumultuously, as if he were engaged in deep self-communion. The spell was broken by the return of Orloff, who, in his deep, growling tone, announced that "Mademoiselle Valiska had recovered from her faint, but still felt so weak that she was forced to beg her guests to excuse her."

      This implied dismissal was by no means unwelcomed by the visitors, who immediately arose, and with a very short adieu to Sergius Zortichoff they left the cottage.

      "And the strangest part of the whole thing," said Aristide to himself, as he bade Henri and his cousin adieu at the garden gate and sauntered on in the direction of the "Hermitage" — "and the strangest part of the whole thing is this: That, the devil take me if I understood head or tail of it."

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CHAPTER X.

      ALL night long Aristide tumbled and tossed in a restless and dream-haunted sleep. At one moment he was engaged in a desperate combat with a horde of sanguinary and ferocious savages, who prodded him with their long spears in the most malicious manner. Then these phantoms would fade away to give place to the mournful face of Valiska Zortichoff, her beautiful gray eyes gazing imploringly upon him. Then the hideous, mutilated countenance of Orloff would come to crowd away the sad and lovely vision, or the still more repulsive features of Pierre Marrois, livid and streaked with blood, as he had seen them on the night of the murder.

      "Decidedly, my friend," said Vis, as he arose to make his toilet, "you are done up this time, finished completely. First your appetite and now your sleep, both gone. Decidedly, as I said before, my unfortunate Aristide, this mysterious affair has finished you entirely. It is no use to struggle. You are a victim for Fate's slings and arrows, and if you take my advice, my friend, you will try to bear it as calmly as possible. And it serves you right!" he cried, more energetically, as he vigorously polished off his face with the towel. "Why did you want to run away from Paris, instead of meeting your fate like a man? You, a soldier, and afraid to stand up before the fire of a pair of brown eyes? There! I really have no compassion for you, and I only hope you may go on getting mixed up deeper and deeper in this mysterious affair, until your brain gives way. Oh, yes! I can see you now, my unhappy friend, tied down in a strait-waistcoat, and howling like a legion of fiends. Well, you would come down here, for peace, was it? And this is what you have got. Holloa! who's that coming in?"

      The door opened discreetly, and a young woman appeared in the doorway.

      "Well, what is it, Jeanne?" inquired Aristide of the girl.

      "Excuse me, monsieur — a gendarme."

      "A gendarme!" screamed Aristide, waving his arm with such a violent gesticulation that the terrified girl sprang back in alarm. "A gendarme! Kill him, extinguish him, murder him!"

      The young man broke into a loud laugh as he noticed the expression of the servant's face, who, with eyes big with astonishment, stood gazing in helpless and speechless wonder on her master's countenance.

      "There, there, Jeanne," at length he said, when he had recovered from his mirth; "after all, you need not kill the gendarme. What does the man want?"

      With some trepidation the girl faltered out:

      "He comes from Monsieur le Maire with this — this — note."

      "Well, give it here," cried Aristide, with a shrug of his shoulders; "it is clear there is no escaping my destiny. I no sooner get rid of those other lunatics before here comes this maniac, to seize upon me again. Decidedly Monsieur le Maire has made a mistake. I may be a hermit, but I am neither a confessor nor his spiritual adviser. At least I can refuse to have anything to do further with this affair. I am sure it is none of my business, and I'll just Eh! — what is it, Jeanne?"

      "Oh, but, monsieur, is there any answer for the gendarme?"

      The young man, who had been striding up and down the room, was recalled to himself by the words of the girl. He hastened to read the note, which had remained up to this time unopened in his hand. It was from Léon Dantan, entreating him as a great personal favor to call upon the writer at the earliest convenient moment. Aristide gave a groan as he tossed the paper on the table.

      "There is no escaping fate," he muttered. "I give it up. Tell the gendarme, my good Jeanne, I will be with the mayor in a very few moments. And there goes another breakfast," he moaned to himself, as the girl left the room. "Another breakfast gone, never to be recovered. And I had set my mind on one of Papa Dubois's trout. Well, I will go back to Paris this evening, that's settled."

      He said the last words firmly, and as if he were cutting the Gordian knot of all his difficulties. And having thus relieved his mind, put on his coat and hat and started to the Hotel de Ville.

      Léon Dantan was alone in his office when he arrived, and was evidently awaiting the young man, for he eagerly advanced to meet him.

      Aristide could not but notice that a change had taken place in the mayor's appearance. His countenance no longer bore the careworn expression which had marked it when they last met, but instead, it was with a smile that he greeted his new friend, and begged him to take a seat.

      "You are no doubt surprised, monsieur, at my sending for you in such an informal manner, but you will excuse me," he said, "when I tell you that some strange discoveries have been made in Marrois's case. You see," he continued, looking at Aristide, "I take it for granted that you are still interested in that mysterious affair." The young man replied with an affirmative motion of his head, and looked properly interested, seeing which the speaker went on to say: "Yes, some very strange circumstances have transpired, and I begin to believe that my poor friend's death will not rest unavenged. You remember what was your theory of this case?"

      "Certainly," answered Aristide. "I thought that the crime was committed by a woman."

      "That is true. But the only doubt in the affair was what could have been the cause. And now, will you believe me, a woman has made her appearance, and not only a woman, but one who might have a cause to wish Marrois dead."

      Aristide's look this time was one of astonishment.

      "That sounds strange, does it not? You cannot, however, be more surprised than I was. You may remember, monsieur, that I had a certain idea. No, I will not say an idea, a suspicion, a wild thought — no matter what. Thank God! there is now every reason to believe that it was unfounded. To me this woman comes as a deliverer."

      "But who, then, is this woman?" asked Aristide.

      "It is the strangest thing in the world. Only think, after all these long years that Pierre Marrois lived in Abois, it should be reserved until this moment for us his most intimate friends to find out that, instead of being, as he had always represented himself, a bachelor, he was in reality a married man."

      "Then, this woman ——?"

      "Claims to be Marrois's wife. She has filed the certificate of her marriage, and asks to be recognized as the heir to the joint property."

      The mayor paused, and seemed to wait for Aristide to recover from this overpowering communication.

      The young man, however, did not appear greatly affected, and simply inquired "how this claim could possibly connect Marrois's wife with Marrois's murderer."

      "That is it!" cried the mayor, eagerly. "Don't you see? This woman was poor — a mere workwoman. Marrois's life stood between her and a fortune. Will you say that was not cause sufficient? The more, that Marrois had never acknowledged this woman, whom he married years ago, when he was a poor man."

      "Still, even if with such a temptation," said Aristide, "I would doubt whether such a woman as you have described could be capable of planning an affair like that."

      "Ah, bah!" cried the mayor, with some slight irritation in his manner. "It appears to me that you are unnecessarily critical."

      "That is because I have formed an idea of the woman who did this deed," replied Aristide. "And my imaginary murderess, I will frankly admit to you, does not in the least resemble a workwoman. Do you forget that glove?"

      "Well, well, you may perhaps change your mind, and that very soon, for Monsieur Duquesnay has considered it proper to summon this woman before him, and I have obtained his permission for you to attend the examination. I am indeed awaiting every moment to be called to the Bureau du Juge."

      The entrance of an attendant with a letter for the Mayor put a stop to the conversation. With a muttered pardon to Aristide, Léon Dantan eagerly tore open the envelope, and was soon absorbed in the perusal of its contents.

      The note was evidently a short one, for he soon turned again to his companion.

      "You were saying, monsieur?" he inquired, in an abstracted manner, that plainly showed that his mind was still busy with other thoughts.

      "I was saying nothing, monsieur," replied Aristide, solemnly. "I was only thinking."

      The implied reproof contained in this grave reply brought a slight flush to the mayor's cheek.

      "You must really excuse me," he hastily said; "but the fact is, I am completely upset by this mysterious affair. After all these years of intimate acquaintance, that Marrois should never have mentioned this wife to me, seems almost incredible."

      "Then you knew him well?"

      "Pardieu! I should think so. We were both born in Abois, and grew up here together. We served in the same command during the war."

      "Ah! you served in the war?"

      "Yes — certainly; in the Franc-Tireurs of Abois; and after the war we were associated together in business. It is scarcely possible for any one to know a man better than I knew Marrois, and I say again that it is almost incredible that he should never have mentioned his wife to me."

      "I fancy, monsieur," answered Aristide, "that few of us know all the secrets of even our most intimate friends."

      "True; and apropos of friends, you were with Henri and my niece at Mademoiselle Zortichoff's yesterday. May I ask how you thought the young lady was looking?"

      Aristide could scarcely repress his surprise at this question.

      "But you forget, monsieur, that I have only seen Mademoiselle Valiska twice. I must say, however, that she appeared far from well, and I suppose Henri told you."

      "Yes, yes; the poor girl is overtaxing her strength. I must really lecture her," continued Léon Dantan, in a musing tone. "What with those music-lessons, and that unhappy young Sergius, she is ruining her health. There, there!" he exclaimed, suddenly recovering from his half-reverie. "Of what were were we speaking? Oh, yes; I remember! It was of Marrois. Well, as I was saying, after the war we were in business together. Pierre was a mechanic, and had invented a number of improvements in the manufacture of beet-sugar. We formed a partnership to work his patents. They proved very successful, and we realized so handsomely from our manufactory, that Marrois was able to retire from business a few years ago with a large fortune. But, upon my word," cried Dantan, "I fear that Duquesnay has forgotten us. I see that it is twelve o'clock. If you will follow me, I will conduct you to his office."

      When the two gentlemen reached the Bureau of the Judge, they found that gentleman engaged in an earnest conversation with a tall, thin man dressed in a rusty-black suit.

      This person rose on the entrance of the mayor, and Aristide instantly recognized the man with the dyed hair and bushy whiskers, whom he had seen on the occasion of his previous visit to the judge's office.

      "Don't let me interrupt you!" cried Dantan. "I only feared you had forgotten us."

      "Oh, by no means!" replied Monsieur Duquesnay. "You are not interrupting me. Indeed, I was just about to send for you." Then turning to the man in the black clothes, he hastily said, "Yes; that will do, Charles. Go and find Baptiste at once, and bring him here."

      With an obsequious bow to the two gentlemen, the person addressed left the apartment, and the judge turned to greet his visitors a second time.

      "Well, my dear Claude," eagerly inquired the mayor, after the gentlemen had seated themselves, "how does this mysterious case progress? I have been talking it over with monsieur here; but have failed to convince him that this woman had any connection with the affair."

      "And why, if I may ask?" questioned the judge. "I assure you, monsieur, that we have made some very strange discoveries, thanks to the energy and sharpness of that fellow Guimand. I think even you, Léon, will be surprised when you hear what we have found out."

      "Guimand?" inquired the mayor.

      "Yes; the agent from the Prefecture in Paris; that was he who left the office just now. These fellows seem to have the nose of a hound for scenting out crime. But why, may I ask, is monsieur so confident of the innocence of this suspected woman?" inquired the judge, addressing himself to Aristide.

      "I think I could explain my reasons better after the examination," replied Vis. "Recollect, monsieur, I have not seen Madame Marrois. A single glance might, perhaps, induce me to change my mind entirely."

      "In that case," said the judge, "I will summon the woman at once. Guillaume," he called out to the clerk who was writing at his desk, "introduce Madame Marrois."

      Both Aristide and the mayor kept their eyes glued upon the door in anxious expectation. After a few moments it reopened, and the clerk returned, ushering in a woman whom he announced as Madame Marrois.

      The newcomer was tall and thin, with a face which, although at one time it might have had some claims to good looks, was now worn and haggard with premature age.

      The complexion was sallow and dingy; the features, pinched and shrunken; the whole countenance exhibiting the strongest evidence of care and suffering. The only redeeming point to the face was a pair of large black eyes, which seemed the more bright from the dark circles which surrounded them.

      She was plainly though neatly dressed in gray serge, and carried in her hand a reticule. Aristide's eyes were instantly riveted upon the gloved hands. They were small and slender.

      The woman was evidently greatly agitated, and controlled her emotion with difficulty. She stood shifting her little bag from one hand to the other, her lips trembling nervously, and her dark eyes fixed in pitiful entreaty upon the three gentlemen.

      "Will you be seated, madame," said Monsieur Duquesnay, pointing to a chair which the clerk had placed in front of the desk.

      The trepidation which the woman evinced as she complied with the judge's command induced him to pause for a few moments, to allow her to regain her composure.

---

CHAPTER XI.

      "NOW, MADAME," said the judge, "you will be kind enough to answer the questions I am about to put to you;" and while speaking he made a private sign to his clerk, who prepared to take down the answers of the witness. "Your name, madame?"

      The woman moistened her dry lips, and with an effort managed, at length, to reply, in a low, husky voice:

      "Stéphanie Lacroix. That is to say — no, Monsieur le Juge — I should say Stéphanie Marrois."

      "You claim to be the widow of Pierre Marrois, who died here in Abois on the 28th of June?"

      "Yes, monsieur."

      "You have filed your claim to the joint property in Monsieur Marrois's estate?"

      This time the woman replied simply with a bow.

      "You may not be aware, madame, that during all the years Pierre Marrois lived here in Abois he always passed for a single man. This claim of yours is therefore a matter of great surprise to every one." He looked inquiringly at the witness, but receiving no answer, went on: "Your certificate of marriage shows that you and Pierre Marrois were married in Lyons, in '65. I must ask you to tell me the whole story of your connection with the man whom you now claim to have been your husband."

      The poor woman appeared greatly disturbed by the close scrutiny of the three pair of eyes riveted upon her. Her hands moved nervously, and the pallid hue deepened upon her countenance. She made several efforts to speak, but it was some time before she could control her trembling lips sufficiently to make herself intelligible.

      "I was born in Lyons, m'sieur. My parents died when I was a little girl, and left me to the care of my aunt. She was a coiffeuse, and raised me to her business. Our little store prospered, and my aunt died in '64. She left me the shop and two thousand francs, which she had managed to save. I was young then, and giddy, and pleased with admiration. One day I noticed a man in front of my shop. I noticed him because he stood there for a very long time, and because — well — because — m'sieur, it seemed to me it was at myself he was looking. The next day he came again, and so on for many days. He was nice-looking, and I was not displeased with this attention. At length he ventured to enter the shop and speak to me. He said he was a stranger in Lyons; a mechanic, and traveling through to see the great manufactories. His name was Pierre Marrois. Well, m'sieur, I did not repulse him, and we became quite friendly. He had some money, and he was not miserly in spending it. We went to all the fêtes together; and, to make the story short, m'sieur, Pierre Marrois asked me to marry him, and I accepted. After our marriage everything went well for a short while. Pierre obtained employment in one of the factories of the city, and his earnings and what was produced by my shop enabled us to live very comfortably. This did not last long. I now discovered that my husband was a very different man from what I had thought him. Perhaps I was jealous by nature — I don't know; but I soon found occasion to reproach him for his attention to other women; and then, m'sieur, I made another discovery — that he was cruel and brutal; for, when I became justly angry at his neglect toward me, and accused him of it, he grew furious, and struck me. Well, m'sieur, this was the beginning, and things went on from worse to worse. Several months passed in this cat-and-dog life, and then I waked up one morning to find that my husband had deserted me. I did not seek to find him. No, m'sieur, he had abused me so cruelly, so abominably, that I was only too glad to be rid of him. Fortunately we had no children.

      "I returned to my shop and my life as it had been before my marriage. Everybody knew my painful story, but I did not care, m'sieur, for now, at least, I was no longer beaten. Well, years passed by, my business prospered, and what was the best of all, I heard nothing of my husband. I can tell you, m'sieur, that my only fear during all those years was that he would come back to me. I was getting to be an old woman, when one day comes a letter to me. I opened it, and conceive my surprise. It was from my husband. He informed me that he was living here in Abois, and desired to see me on a matter of importance. I was to come to this place as soon as possible. The letter contained some money for my journey. It was quite a time, m'sieur, before I could make up my mind what to do. You may believe I did not want to see my husband. But I was afraid that if I did not obey him he would come to Lyons and do me an injury. So at last I made up my mind. Well, m'sieur, I arrived here, and having found a lodging, I wrote a note to Monsieur Marrois, which I sent, as he had directed, to an address given me in his letter." The agitation of the woman, which had been noticeable throughout her testimony, at this point became far more marked. She trifled nervously with her little bag, her voice grew fainter and huskier as she went on, in an embarrassed and faltering manner, with her story. "I received an answer from my husband; he gave me a rendezvous, at which I was to meet him, and ——" The woman's excitement here became so powerful that she was unable to speak.

      "Madame," said Monsieur Duquesnay, when, after some moments, the witness still remained silent, "you speak of a letter from Monsieur Marrois; you have, of course, brought it with you?"

      "No, m'sieur."

      The effort required to speak even those few words was plainly apparent. The judge looked grave and went on:

      "Well, then, the note from Monsieur Marrois in answer to yours? the note giving you this rendezvous?" He waited for some time, and receiving no reply, repeated his question a second, and even a third, time. The nervous excitement of the woman was now almost pitiful. Her sallow complexion had changed to a dull, chalky hue. Her lips quivered convulsively, and a frightened look came into her dark eyes.

      "Madame," said the judge, in a grave and even severe tone, "you are not, perhaps, aware of the mistake you are committing in not answering my questions. None but the guilty can desire concealment."

      At this word "guilty," pronounced in an emphatic manner, the poor creature gave way entirely, and covering her face with her hand, burst into tears.

      The judge waited for a moment, to allow her to regain her composure, and when her sobs grew fainter he went on with his questioning.

      "Again, madame, I ask you, where is the note you received from Monsieur Marrois?"

      "Alas! m'sieur," she replied, in a low and almost inaudible voice — "alas! m'sieur, it has been destroyed."

      "That is very strange, madame. But if the note is destroyed, you certainly will have no objection to tell us where was the place of rendezvous?"

      "Oh, m'sieur, m'sieur!" wailed the poor creature, "I cannot, I cannot! I am the most unfortunate woman in the world. But, on my word, m'sieur, I am not guilty of anything wrong. Indeed, I am not! Oh, you must believe me, m'sieur, you must believe me!" and wringing her hands excitedly, she began to sob and cry in a hysterical manner.

      "Madame," said the judge, solemnly, "as I told you before, you are doing very wrong not to reply to my questions. You are doing even worse than wrong, you are imperiling your safety if you are really innocent. Your husband, Monsieur Marrois, was murdered; and justice is seeking for the assassin. This concealment, this want of readiness to respond to my questions, can only give rise to suspicions calculated to do you great harm. I would advise you to think well before you decide to persevere in the dangerous course you have entered upon. In your present state of agitation it would be cruel to force you to a sudden decision by continuing this examination. I will therefore give you a half-hour in which to consider whether or not you will take my advice, and answer my questions."

      Calling his clerk, Monsieur Duquesnay whispered a few words to the man, and then continued:

      "There, madame, you will please to follow my clerk. He will show you to a room where you can be alone, and I trust that when you have considered this matter calmly you will adopt a different course."

      Unable to reply from excessive emotion, Stéphanie Marrois, without a word, followed the clerk from the room. Scarcely had the door closed upon her retreating form when Léon Dantan turned to Vis, and eagerly demanded to know what he now thought of the affair.

      "Just the same as before," Aristide replied, with even more than his usual sangfroid, his quiet, impassive manner contrasting strongly with the excitement evinced by the mayor. "Since I have seen this Madame Marrois I am only the more strengthened in my belief that she had no complicity whatever in her husband's murder."

      "But this woman's alarm, nay, almost terror; her refusal to answer Duquesnay's questions, to produce that note, or mention the place of rendezvous at which she met her husband?"

      "All serve to strengthen my belief in her innocence."

      "But suppose, monsieur," broke in the judge, "that this note named as a place of rendezvous the public garden on the night of the fête?"

      "Even that would not make me change my mind. I will even admit to you that I think it very probable that this woman may have gone to that fête. But what then? Does that prove her guilty of the murder? Remember that there were also hundreds of other women at the same place."

      "But why should this woman be so much alarmed?" exclaimed the mayor. "Again I ask, why should this woman be so much alarmed if she is really innocent?"

      "To me," answered Vis, "that is the strongest point in her favor. You look surprised, but to me it is very simple. Everything in connection with this crime indicated that it was coolly and deliberately planned, and boldly carried into execution. The woman capable of planning and executing this deed is a woman far above Madame Marrois intellectually. If justice ever finds her, she will be found ready, and prepared with a full and complete defense. If Duquesnay has to examine that woman, he will have no tears or alarms to fear, no evasions or concealments, which only serve to arouse suspicions. Oh, no, that woman will have a clear and straightforward story. She has not only planned the murder, but also the defense. At least," said the young man, relapsing into his calm, impassive manner, as if wearied by his energetic defense, "at least that is my idea."

      "But what earthly motive could any other woman have?" demanded Léon Dantan.

      "That's what bothers me. Yes, yes; that is the only thing that confuses me. The cause! What could be the cause?"

      The young man spoke in a meditative manner, more as if to himself than to his companions.

      "It seems to me, monsieur," cried the judge, with a slight expression of astonishment — "it seems to me that your words would imply that you thought yourself possessed of some clew to the solution of this mysterious affair."

      "Excuse me; but if I have any idea, it is all so dim and unreal, and with so little to rest on, that it would be wrong for me even to mention my suspicions until they are sustained by something more like proof. All I can say is that this woman, whom I believe to be guilty, has haunted me in dreams every night since the murder; and for Dantan's satisfaction, I will tell you that she is a different woman every way from this Madame Marrois."

      "And may I ask monsieur," inquired the judge, with a scarcely repressed smile, "what this woman is like who comes to you in your dreams?"

      "Very different indeed from Madame Marrois, as I have before said. She is tall and slender, with a pale, handsome face and large flashing eyes. She is a woman of high intellectual capacity, and of great courage."

      "Pardon me," said Dantan, interrupting the speaker; "is this a portrait or an ideal sketch?"

      "A little of both, monsieur; but I am taking up your valuable time with my idle speculations. I suppose you have other testimony?"

      "Yes, yes," replied Claude Duquesnay. "Perhaps when you hear the next witness, you may change your mind. Guillaume," he continued, speaking to the clerk, "see if Madame Pichaud is without?"

---

CHAPTER XII.

      THE appearance of the new witness who was ushered in by the clerk was so odd and remarkable as to produce a universal smile. She was a woman past middle age, short and exceedingly fat, with a fresh, ruddy complexion, and two little eyes like black beads. Her costume consisted of a dark cotton frock, an orange-and-green shawl, and a large straw bonnet trimmed with immense red flowers — a bonnet, whose age would have taxed all the powers of the best antiquarians to determine.

      To add to the attractiveness of her appearance, her face was tied up in a foulard handkerchief, which rivaled in brilliancy of color the hues of her shawl, and her large hands were incased in the unfamiliar adornment of coarse white cotton gloves. She did not appear a whit discomposed by the presence of the three gentlemen, but skipped forward, and in the most nonchalant manner took her place in the chair, which poor Stéphanie Marrois had just vacated, exhibiting by this movement a pair of huge feet in carpet slippers, and hose of more than doubtful purity.

      "Your name, if you please?" said Claude Duquesnay, with some difficulty repressing the merriment caused by this grotesque figure.

      "Jeanne Aglaé Marie Séraphine Pichaud, M'sieur le Juge, portress at No. 25 Rue d'Orville, M'sieur le Juge. Ah, yes; and a very hard life indeed for a poor woman; nothing but work, work, work, all day; and as for my pay, why, so to speak, M'sieur le Juge, nothing; and then the tenants coming in all day and all night with a tramp, tramp, like an army, and a noise — oh, mon Dieu! such a noise! — and their boots — see now, M'sieur le Juge, worse than a chiffonier. Ah, yes; a hard life indeed; and it was but this morning I said to Celeste, my gossip (Celeste, M'sieur le Juge, is the portress of 23), 'Celeste,' I said, 'you hear, you hear me! I make a vow to le bon Dieu. I will quit this business. I have some francs saved. I will take my francs, and go away, away!"

      "You are the portress at No. 25 Rue d'Orville?" demanded the judge, breaking in with difficulty on this flow of words, which the little woman poured forth in a high and shrill voice, and with a volubility which was absolutely marvelous.

      "As you say, M'sieur le Juge — portress at No. 25 Rue d'Orville. Well, it is true our house is the best on the Square; and then for dirt, I defy you, M'sieur le Juge, to find a speck on my halls; but Grace-à-Dieu! this will not take one to heaven. No, no! As I said, 'Celeste,' says I, 'I will make a vow to le bon Dieu!"

      "You are acquainted with a woman named Stéphanie Lacroix?"

      "True, M'sieur le Juge. Why should I seek to hide it. Stéphanie Lacroix? Ah, yes; I will not deceive you! Why should I? They will tell you — yes, every one will tell you — that, Aglaé Pichaud has nothing to hide. Do you see, M'sieur le Juge, my life is open like that;" and here the little woman spread her arms widely apart, and gesticulated in a most animated manner. "Yes, indeed; and it is not every one can say that. But you hear me, M'sieur le Juge, if they said the things about me that they do of Franchine — Franchine is at No. 30, m'sieur — I should die; and she — only fancy, M'sieur le Juge — she the mother of children, and with a husband. It is true that poor père Rideau is only a stick; but what, then? — he is a man all the same."

      "And when did you first see this Stéphanie Lacroix?" inquired the judge, who had been vainly endeavoring to stem the torrent of her words.

      "Why should I conceal it from you, M'sieur le Juge? It was like this: I was standing in front of my door, just saying a word to my gossip, with my tubs and broom all ready — for, do you see, M'sieur le Juge, I was about to wash off my banquet when I saw a woman come out of the little shop of Madame Piro. Madame Piro has a shop on the ground-floor of our house, M'sieur le Juge. Well, when I saw this woman, I said to Celeste, 'See, now, Celeste, that is a stranger in Abois. It is true, M'sieur le Juge, the woman had her vail down, and I could not see her face; but what, then? All the same, I saw right straight. She was a stranger, and so I said to Celeste. Well, before my gossip could answer me, up comes the woman, and says, 'Madame Pichaud?' 'Présent.' Then the lady went on to say that Mademoiselle Clementine Piro had sent her to me to inquire for lodgings. Had I a room in the house to let? 'Ma foi!' I answered, 'yes. Would madame care to see the rooms? Well, M'sieur le Juge, I took the lady up-stairs, and she suited herself with a room, au cinquième, at five francs a week — pay in advance, M'sieur le Juge, and my woman, she paid for a week in advance — and then she said, 'Madame Pichaud, can I have a boy to carry a note for me?' Oh, yes, M'sieur le Juge! 'Can I have a boy to carry a note for me?' Those were the words. Well, M'sieur le Juge, I am not curious. Oh, no; I am not curious; but when a strange woman comes to your house with nothing for baggage but a small sac de nuit, and asks for a boy to deliver a note — I said, 'To whom pray, madame?' But my lady was dumb. She wanted a boy; that was all. I went down-stairs to get Celeste's nephew; but the gamin was away; so I was forced to take the first boy that passed. While I was waiting, down comes my new lodger herself, with a paper in her hand, and when a boy passed by, will you believe me, M'sieur le Juge, she took him to one side, and foi d'honneur, I did not hear one word she said. Well, when the rascal was gone, my lodger asked might she sit in my little room to wait for the answer. Why, of course, M'sieur le Juge; so we sat down to talk. My lodger was open — oh, so open! — but that devil of a note! 'She was a stranger?' 'Yes.' 'Her name?' 'Stéphanie Lecroix.' 'Was she going to stay long in Abois?' 'Well, she did not know that; it depended.' After a half-hour back comes that rascal of a boy, but Grace-à-Dieu! my lodger heard him before me. Crack! she was out of the door, had the answer from the gamin, and had paid and sent him away before I could get my hand on him. Well, she came back into my room, and there she read the note. It must have been a strange one, M'sieur le Juge, for she looked much surprised. I thought perhaps she would speak, but, no. After a moment she said 'Thank you, Madame Pichaud,' and whiz! she was off up-stairs like that!" and the little woman snapped her fingers.

      "And what day was this?" inquired the judge, as Madame Pichaud paused for breath.

      "Well, M'sieur le Juge, to speak the truth, it was on the 27th of June."

      "And after that?"

      "And after that, m'sieur, I saw no more of her for an hour; when, just as I was talking it over with Celeste, down comes my lady, and calls me into my room. 'Would I do her a great favor?' 'Well, perhaps.' 'There was to be a grand fête to-morrow night at the public garden.' 'Why, yes, a grand fête, indeed, to the Hussars; a fête en masque. My cousin, Baptiste, was a waiter in the garden.' 'Ah! well, that was lucky,' said my lodger. Could I get a card for the fête, and a costume?' You may believe me, M'sieur le Juge, when she said that, I opened my eyes as wide as two church windows. She went on to say that if I would do that, and keep it a secret, it would be a great favor to her, and she would pay me well for my trouble. Well, M'sieur le Juge, I am not above earning a few francs, and though I thought my lodger was not the kind of a person for such a joke as a fête en masque — for you see, m'sieur, she was plain, oh, so plain! and not young, no, not to say young — well, as I say, I said I would get her the domino and a card. Why, Baptiste could easily procure one. This seemed to please my lady greatly, and she gave me some five-franc pieces for Baptiste and for the costume. Well, M'sieur le Juge, not to keep you on pins, the next day Baptiste brought me the card. My lady had not been out of the house since she entered it; oh, no, not so much as the tip of her nose. I brought her her meals from the traiteur's, and she kept as close in her room as a mouse in her hole. I said to myself, 'Aglaé Pichaud, that lodger of yours is going to play some joke on her young man'; and I marveled much, M'sieur le Juge, that a woman, plain like her, should be up to such games. When the night of the fête came around I was all ready, M'sieur le Juge. I had done my part. Oh, yes, I had a costume in my lady's room by early dark."

      "And this costume — what was it like?" inquired the judge, with an expression of eager interest, which was reflected in the eyes of his two companions.

      "Oh, very simple, indeed, M'sieur le Juge. A gray domino and mask, nothing more, upon my word."

      At this reply Léon Dantan gave a quick start, and fixed his eye upon Aristide, as if to mark the effect produced by the woman's words upon his friend. If he expected any display of astonishment he was doomed to disappointment, for Vis was not a whit disconcerted by this startling revelation. He appeared as calm as if Madame Pichaud's words had been exactly what he had expected; and his only reply to the inquiring glance of the mayor was an elevation of the eyebrows and a careless shrug of the shoulders.

      "Well, madame?"

      "Well, M'sieur le Juge," continued Aglaé, who had only paused for breath, and who now eagerly took up her narrative — "well, m'sieur, my lodger was pleased with her costume; oh, very well pleased. I thought, perhaps, she would go early to the fête; but no, it was quite late when she came down in my little room, and asked me to tie on her mask. Well, m'sieur, I did so; and fixed her hood as well. She was in no hurry, however, for she sat and talked to me for a long time. How long, I cannot well say; but long, yes, quite long. And what did we talk about? Well, who knows? At last my lady left me."

      "And what hour was this?"

      "I cannot say, M'sieur le Juge. I did not look at the clock at that time; but it was late — oh, yes; quite late! After my lady left me, I set to work darning my stockings, and well, M'sieur le Juge, after some time, I think — yes — perhaps I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up I felt curious like. I stretched myself and looked at the clock. It said half-past ten. This astonished me much, M'sieur le Juge, for I thought it must be much later. Well, when I come to look, what do I see? My clock had stopped, I wound it up and started it again, and just as I was taking away the key, somebody comes rap, rap, at my door. I opened it, and there is my lady, come back already from the fête. Well, she comes in, and takes off her mask and domino. I wanted to hear, m'sieur, of course, of the fête; but, no, my lady was tired. She bundled up her domino and mask, and begged me to take them back to the costumer in the morning, and without a word she was off to her room."

      "And you cannot tell me," demanded the judge, "at what hour this woman returned from the fête?"

      "Impossible, m'sieur. There was that clock ticking along like a good one. But eleven o'clock? I know that was not the time, m'sieur. Well, early the next morning, I took the costume back to the costumer's, and, grand Dieu! what was the first thing that I heard from the man — that poor Monsieur Marrois had been murdered! Whew! that was news indeed; and I hurried home to tell Celeste. While my gossip and I were talking it over, down comes my lodger, and, when she hears the news, will you believe me, M'sieur le Juge, she fell, as it were, all in a heap, her face white — oh, yes — white as a meal-sack. Well, she gets me in my little room, and makes me tell her the whole thing, which surprised me much, m'sieur, seeing that she was at the fête herself, and so I told her."

      "And she said ——?"

      "She said, will you believe me, M'sieur le Juge? 'that all that must have happened after she left,' and that was all I could get out of her; for, up she goes to her room, and shuts herself up again as close — as close ——   Well, see, now, M'sieur le Juge, for three days that woman kept in her room; no one saw her but me when I carried her her meals; and I tell you she looked bad — oh, so bad! Those days made an old woman of her. Well, one day, when I was serving her dinner, she asked me if there was any more news of the gentleman who was killed at the fête. Well, then, I told her no, but that I might hear something that day, as I was going to M'sieur Marrois's notary to take him the rent. She looked up in surprise, and asked me if I knew M'sieur Marrois. Mon Dieu! what a question! Did I know M'sieur Marrois, my landlord! Oh, go along, then! I should think so. She seemed surprised to hear that M'sieur Marrois was my landlord; so, then, I told her he was one of the richest men in Abois. This seemed to stagger her, and then, after a long time, grand Dieu! she told me M'sieur Marrois was her husband. Well, m'sieur, when that woman told me that, you might have knocked me down with a straw. I thought she was going crazy; but, no, she went to her little sac, and brought out a printed paper, which she said was her marriage certificate. Well, m'sieur, to make an end of it, it was I who told her she had better see the lawyer, for M'sieur Marrois was a very rich man; and so I took her to the notary; and, ma foi! that is all about it."

      "And, since that time, has the woman been residing in your house?"

      "Just the same as before, M'sieur le Juge, as quiet as a lamb."

      "And that is all you know?"

      "Everything; on my word, M'sieur le Juge."

      "Did you ever speak of this to any one before?"

      "Well, then, yes, M'sieur le Juge. There comes along a thin man in black, with hair so black, so black, and this m'sieur he asks me all kinds of questions, and I told him — what had I to hide? — I told him everything. Oh, yes; I told him how frightened my lodger looked, when my cousin Baptiste told us about the strange woman who was with M'sieur Marrois at the fête, and how the gendarmes were hunting for her. But what, then? The poor thing! it was her husband. Do you see, her husband, M'sieur le Juge, and ——"

      "And so your cousin Baptiste told you about the masked woman who was with Monsieur Marrois at the fête?"

      "It is true, M'sieur le Juge, and ——"

      "And that is all you know?"

      "Everything M'sieur le Juge; but ——"

      "And, since that time, this woman has remained quietly in your house?"

      "Yes, truly, m'sieur; as I said ——"

      "That will do, Madame Pichaud. You can now withdraw."

      The woman seemed rather disappointed at the stoppage to her loquacity; but upon a repetition of her dismissal she arose from her chair, and with a queer little nod to the gentlemen, she skipped out of the room in the same abrupt manner with which she had entered it.

(To be continued.)

THE DEATH-MARK. — "THE LADY, WITH THE MOST NONCHALANT MANNER POSSIBLE, TOOK POSSESSION OF THE COMFORTABLE CHAIR THUS RESIGNED, SPREAD OUT HER SKIRTS, AND CROSSED HER SLENDER FEET ON THE PHILOSOPHER'S FOOTSTOOL."

      "AND now, Monsieur Vis," said the judge, when the volatile Aglaé had disappeared, "I repeat to you the question of my friend Claude: What think you, now, of this affair?"

      "And I reply to you, monsieur, as I replied to him, that my opinion is still unchanged. You will remember that I admitted the presence of this poor woman at the fête as possible. It is now a certainty."

      "But it seems to me that there is something more proved than the mere presence of this woman at the fête. The costume described by Pichaud as worn by her tallies very closely with that worn by the masked woman who committed this horrible crime. Here, then, we have a cause; a woman and a costume which is, to say the least, very suspicious."

      "But in spite of all this," said Vis, "my mind is still unchanged. I look at this Stéphanie, I listen to her voice, and these satisfy me that she never committed this crime. You must acknowledge, Monsieur le Juge, that this murder was premeditated, was fully planned in advance. It is not usual, here at least, for women to go to balls carrying with them on their persons poisoned weapons. Nor is it supposable that any one planning such a deed as this would be so unutterably foolish as to place her secret in the keeping of such a chatterer as that Aglaé Pichaud. And then, do you think the murderer would have courted public attention by thus boldly claiming the estate of her victim? No; no; monsieur, this woman is innocent."

      "You plead well for your client," said Duquesnay; "but I will now recall Madame Marrois, and we shall see what she will say."

      When the woman entered the room for the second time, her step was firmer than upon the occasion of her first appearance in the judge's office. There were signs of deep emotion on her face. Her eyelids were red and swollen, and traces of recent tears were visible upon the lashes; her hand still trembled nervously as she played with her little sacque; but she came forward and took the chair just deserted by the voluble Aglaé in a manner that bespoke a mind nerved to action.

      "You have considered my advice, madame," said the judge, "and will answer my questions?"

      "Yes, monsieur," she replied, almost in a whisper. The answer was not given without great effort. The voice of the speaker was low, and she was compelled to moisten her lips before she could enunciate these words: "Yes, monsieur, I see now the mistake I was making: but I am only a weak, weak woman, and I was frightened. I thank you for your kindness in allowing me to explain. Yes; I will answer all your questions."

      "This note, then, which you received from your husband, is it really destroyed?"

      "I told you the truth, Monsieur le Juge. I burned it myself, day before yesterday."

      "Ah!" exclaimed Duquesnay.

      "I burned it in a moment of terror, when I first learned that my husband's assassin was supposed to be a woman."

      "Well, then, this place of rendezvous, at which you met Monsieur Marrois, where was it? Was it not the public garden, on the night of the fête given to the Hussars?"

      "Yes, monsieur; that was the time and place."

      Duquesney paused a moment, and then said:

      "Madame, you will please to relate to me all that took place upon the occasion of that meeting."

      After a moment's hesitation, during which she seemed busy collecting her thoughts, Stéphanie began:

      "I was much surprised at the strange request contained in my husband's note that I should meet him at this fête. At first I did not know what to do, and felt strongly inclined to refuse this request; but after thinking it over, I became convinced that it would be extremely foolish to disobey him. Besides, having come all the way from Lyons, I did not think it right to return without seeing him. Well, I obtained, through the assistance of Madame Pichaud, a costume and a card of admittance, and proceeded to the garden."

      "Stop, madame, for a moment. Did you go on foot or in a vehicle?"

      "On foot. I had inquired the direction to the garden, and had no difficulty in finding my way there. Indeed, there were very few people on the street at that late hour."

      "And at what hour did you reach the garden?"

      "Some time before twelve o'clock. The first person I met on entering the gate was my husband, who was apparently waiting for me at the entrance. I knew him at the first glance, although so many years had passed since I last saw him, and in spite of his changed costume — for he was dressed like a fine gentleman. As I approached and spoke his name, he offered me his arm and led me into a side alley or walk. I found myself in a strange position, meeting my husband under such circumstances and after so long an absence, and I was so nervous I could not speak. Monsieur Marrois, however, did not seem to experience the same emotion, and appeared little affected. He began at once to speak of our past life. How unsuited we were to each other, and how much misery would have been spared us had we never met. He went on to say that he supposed I had no desire to renew our connection. He waited for an answer from me, but I was still too excited to speak. Seeing this, he continued. No one in Abois, he said, knew that he was a married man. He had accumulated a fortune, and was desirous of forming new ties. In short, monsieur, he ended by saying that he wished to marry again, and that, if I consented to surrender my papers, and promise never to claim him, he would settle 100,000 francs on me. It was a strange proposal, and while I was hesitating what answer to give, we were interrupted by one of the maskers, who came forward and touched my husband on the shoulder and whispered a few words in his ear which I did not hear Immediately Monsieur Marrois turned to me and said, 'I will leave you now. Think over what I have proposed, and send your answer to the same address.' The next moment he had offered his arm to the masker and was gone."

      "And this masker, madame. What was she like? I say 'she,' for I understood you to say it was a woman." "Yes, Monsieur le Juge, it was a woman. Her costume I saw but indistinctly — a gray domino and mask. She seemed young, and must have been a woman of rank or position, for I could not help noticing the exquisite shape of the hand that rested on Monsieur Marrois's shoulder."

      "And that is all you noticed?"

      "All, monsieur. The masker was on the other side of Monsieur Marrois, and almost concealed from my sight. I remained for some time after the departure of my husband, walking up and down the alley, trying to reach some decision on his strange offer. At last I concluded not to decide until I had slept upon the proposition, and I left the garden and returned to my house. Madame Pichaud was asleep as I entered the lodge. I awakened her, gave her my costume and retired. Judge of my horror when, on descending, next morning, the first thing I heard was the news of my husband's murder?"

      "And from whom did you hear this, madame?"

      "From Madame Pichaud. I was overcome by the frightful tidings, and so prostrated with nervous excitement, that it was some days before I could crawl from my room. My first wild desire was to return to Lyons at once, and escape from this horrid place; but a strange chance prevented it. Some words that fell from the portress led me to confess that I was Monsieur Marcois's wife. She told me that my husband was a very rich man, and insisted upon my going to see the notary, to find what claims I had to his estate. She bothered me so much about the matter that I at last foolishly consented. When he had examined my papers he said that they were all in due form, and that I could claim half of my husband's property. I left the papers with him and returned to my room. And then, monsieur, I heard for the first time that it was supposed that the murder had been committed by a woman. I saw at once all the danger I had run into by my precipitate action in claiming a portion of the estate. I was terrified, and when the summons came to me to appear at this office, I gave myself up for lost. It was then that I destroyed the note, which I feared might be regarded as suspicious. And now, monsieur, as God is my judge, I have told you the whole truth. I cannot believe that le Bon Dieu will permit an innocent woman to suffer for the guilty."

      And with these words Stéphanie finished her story, and fixing her dark eyes on the judge, sought to read the effect of her words.

      There was a ring of truth in the poor woman's voice that could not fail to produce a deep impression upon the three gentlemen. The sternness had disappeared from Monsieur Duquesnay's manner when he spoke again:

      "That will do, madame; I have no further questions to ask you. But, stop ——" he continued, as if suddenly recalling something. He raised the lid of the desk, searched for a moment in the interior, and produced a small object, which he handed to the witness. "You will do me the favor, madame, to put on that glove."

      The woman appeared surprised and somewhat alarmed at this request, but did not hesitate. Her fingers, how ever, trembled so violently that it was with difficulty she removed her own glove and substituted the one handed her by the judge. When the exchange had been made, and she held forth her hand, it was with the utmost difficulty that even Duquesnay, accustomed as he was to judicial surprises, could repress the exclamation that rose to his lips. The fatal glove fitted exactly the hand it now incased.

      "Madame," said Duquesnay, when he was able to speak without betraying his intense excitement, "you can now retire."

      Poor Stéphanie's fingers trembled still more violently as, without a word, she removed the glove, for she could see that there was some strange connection between it and the murder, and, bowing to them, she left the room.

      A prolonged silence followed her departure, a silence so deep and oppressive that a heavy knock on the door startled the gentlemen like a clap of thunder, and it was with difficulty that Duquesnay uttered the word "Enter."

      It was Guimand, who announced the arrival of Baptiste Ducorneau. This interruption was evidently a welcome one, and the judge gave an order to admit the man at once. The fat, round face of the garçon showed signs of alarm that were not decreased when the judge demanded, in a stern voice, whether he remembered the testimony he had given at the former examination. He stammered, "Yes, mo'sieu," evidently still more alarmed.

      "I warned you then," Duquesnay said, "not to reveal that testimony to any one. Have you obeyed my injunction?"

      The garçon stood, first on one foot, then on the other. The perspiration which gathered on his forehead poured down his fat cheeks as he trembled in a pitiful manner. Duquesnay repeated the question, and upon a third repetition Baptiste at length confessed that he had betrayed the whole story of the gray domino to his cousin, Aglaé Pichaud.

      The examination had reached this point when it was interrupted by a loud exclamation from Vis. Seated by the side of the magistrate's desk, Aristide, while listening to the witness, had been turning over in a careless manner the accusing glove, which Stéphanie had just taken from her hand. Suddenly an idea seemed to strike him, and he glanced at the glove more closely, and this scrutiny resulted in the exclamation that attracted the attention of the judge.

      In response to the look of inquiry from the magistrate, Vis indicated that he did not care to speak before the garçon.

      "You can go, Ducorneau," said the judge; "and be careful what you do in the future."

      The trembling garçon gladly seized on the order of dismissal. The door had scarcely closed on him when Aristide, unable any longer to contain himself, burst forth:

      "Monsieur le Juge! Monsieur le Juge! I have made a strange discovery. Do you see this glove?" he cried, touching it with his fingers — "this glove which we all saw just now, so exactly the hand of this woman who calls herself Madame Marrois. Well, sir, I swear to you this glove is not the one picked up by Lejeune in the arbor of the public garden; not the one left by the gray domino, the murderess of Pierre Marrois."

      "What are you saying?" exclaimed Duquesnay and the mayor simultaneously, with an expression of great astonishment on both their faces.

      "The truth — nothing but the truth. Some frightful trick is being played upon justice."

      "But look, monsieur, look," said the judge. "See, the marks of blood are on the glove. Surely you must be mistaken."

      "No; I tell you, no; this is not the glove. It is the same color, I admit; but it is several sizes larger, and there is not the slightest trace of the perfume I noticed on the other, a perfume that would still be there."

      "But this is impossible," said Duquesnay. "This glove has never been out of my possession since it was handed to me. Yes; I remember now. I gave it to you, Léon. What do you say to this story?"

      "I cannot tell. I do not know what to think," Monsieur Dantan replied, in a bewildered manner. "This story appears so wild, so utterly incredible, and yet Monsieur Vis speaks so confidently."

      "I will swear to what I have said before any court in France," cried Aristide. "Monsieur le Juge, I beg of you, in the name of justice, to give me a chance to prove the truth of my assertion. Join with me, Monsieur Dantan, and entreat him to allow this delay."

      "Claude," said Dantan, as his friend hesitated, irresolute what to reply. "I think you should consent to this request."

      "Be it so," replied Duquesnay, who appeared to be considerably relieved by this proposal to postpone the case. I will adjourn the examination, as you ask."

      "And now let us try to forget this terrible affair," said Léon Dantan. It is near the hour of dinner, Claude. You and Monsieur Vis must come and dine with me. No; no; I will take no refusal."

      After some attempts at excuses, the two gentlemen accepted the invitation, and Duquesnay, having secured the mysterious glove in an iron safe, the three left the office together.

---

CHAPTER XIV.

      AS UPON the occasion of his former visit, the full, rich notes of the piano were the first sounds that greeted Aristide's ear as he crossed the threshold of the mayor's residence; the delicious strains fell like grateful and refreshing balm on the over-excited nerves of the three gentlemen, who during their walk from the "Hotel de Ville" had remained almost entirely silent, wrapped in their gloomy thoughts. Upon Léon Dantan, especially, the effect of the music was almost magical. The careworn and anxious look which had stolen over his face faded as rapidly as the snow melts under the ardent glances of the Spring sun.

      In the little music-room, which appeared to be the favorite resort of the family, the visitors found not only the two cousins, but Mademoiselle Zortichoff. Henri and Henriette, at the piano, were absorbed in some new music which the young lady was practicing; whilst Valiska, seated on a sofa, near one of the windows, was turning over a large portfolio of engravings which was supported on an easel of carved wood; she was the first to observe the visitors, and greeted them with a charming smile and a graceful inclination of her lovely head.

      Some irresistible impulse drew Aristide's eyes to Léon Dantan as he acknowledged the young lady's salute, and he was surprised to watch the empressement visible in the mayor's manner. His cheek flushed and his eyes grew so bright, as he gazed on the charming figure of the young girl, that it began to dawn upon Aristide's mind that something more than a feeling of paternal kindness or benevolence attracted Léon Dantan to the young Russian.

      He had little time, however, to think over his discovery, for Henriette came forward and greeted him with her usual teasing manner, inquiring with an air of well-assumed gravity after the condition of his health, and whether he did not find fasting and prayer calculated to injure his appetite for Pierre Dubois's delicacies. While replying, in his solemn manner, to Mademoiselle Rousel's raillery, Aristide did not fail to notice that Monsieur Dantan had approached Valiska, and engaged the young lady in conversation. The suspicion which had arisen in his mind gathered strength each moment, and he wondered if any of the others had the slightest idea of what he now looked upon as a foregone conclusion. Hazarding some hints and insinuations, he soon found out from Henriette's reply that she at least was innocent of any thought that her uncle's attention to Valiska was dictated by anything but friendship.

      Urged by a feeling of uncontrollable curiosity, he took advantage of the approach of Captain and Claude Duquesnay, who now came forward and joined in the conversation, to draw away toward the sofa upon which Mademoiselle Zortichoff was seated. She glanced up with a pleasant smile as he drew near, and, as he thought, made an almost imperceptible motion, as if to invite him to assume a place by her side.

      Sinking down upon the sofa, he said, with a complimentary bow, that he was glad to see she had recovered from the indisposition of the day before.

      "Ah, monsieur," Valiska replied, in her soft, musical voice, "I fear it is my destiny always to make a bad impression upon you. We have met now but three times, and on both of the former occasions my foolish weakness must have led you to form a poor opinion of my strength of mind."

      "Excuse me, mademoiselle. On the occasions of which you speak, the exhibition of weakness on your part was rather due to the mistake of others than to yourself. The first time I was the guilty party, and yesterday your brother's persistence, and that melancholy story of your parent's ——"

      "Yes; yes!" interrupted Mademoiselle Zortichoff; "but you must make allowance for my poor Sergius. He has been an invalid ever since my mother's death, and his nerves are so shattered and destroyed, that the slightest contradiction is apt to bring on the most frightful convulsions."

      "I fear, mademoiselle," said Léon Dantan, who was idly turning the leaves of the portfolio — "I fear that you are imperiling your health for your brother's sake."

      "Ah, no," Valiska eagerly answered; "and if I were, it would be no more than my duty. Consider all that my poor Sergius suffers, and remember that I am the only one left to care for him."

      The generous expression of the young girl brought a look of intense admiration to the countenance of the mayor, and so preoccupied was he in his study of the beautiful face before him, that he absolutely started when Claude Duquesnay called to him from the other side of the room.

      "Monsieur," said Mademoiselle Zortichoff, turning to Vis, when they were left alone, "I hope that poor woman has been able to prove her innocence?"

      Observing Aristide's evident astonishment at her words, she went on:

      "I see you are surprised that I should know anything of the affair, but it is very simple. Monsieur Dantan mentioned it to Henriette, and my friend has no secrets from me. Surely, monsieur, you cannot think that poor woman guilty?"

      The dark eyes which were fixed so intently upon his face produced such an effect upon the young man, that it was some time before he could frame the answer, for which the girl seemed eagerly to wait.

      But it was not alone admiration for those lovely eyes that kept him silent so long; other feelings, other thoughts sprang up quickly in his mind. "Was this anxiety of Valiska's due to another cause than the innocent disbelief in the guilt of a fellow-being? Was she perhaps seeking to find out from him the result of the morning's examination? The old suspicion, which her beautiful face had almost allayed, again arose as the glamour of her loveliness lost its hold upon him; and when he replied to her, his voice was as grave and solemn as on the occasion of their first meeting.

      "I am sorry to say, mademoiselle, that this poor Marrois did not create a favorable impression — at least upon Messieurs Duquesnay and Dantan."

      "But you, monsieur?"

      "Ah! as for me, mademoiselle, they look on me as a dreamer."

      "I am truly grieved to hear that any such suspicion should still attach to this unfortunate Madame Marrois, for I conclude, monsieur, she was really the wife of Pierre Marrois."

      "Of that there cannot be the slightest doubt."

      "And may I ask," Valiska inquired, after a moment's silence, seeing that Aristide was absorbed in thought and showed no disposition to continue the conversation — "may I ask what is the evidence against this woman?"

      Aristide recovered himself with an effort, and fixing his eyes intently on the charming face of the questioner, he replied:

      "Apparently the evidence is very strong. This Stéphanie Marrois arrived in Abois the day before the murder, communicated with her husband by note, and afterward met him at the fête. Now, perhaps you have not heard, mademoiselle, that Pierre Marrois's murderer was a woman?"

      He paused to mark the effect of his words, and observing no trace of the slightest emotion on the calm face before him, he continued:

      "A woman who wore a gray silk domino and mask, and had a small scarlet bow upon her shoulder. Now, unfortunately, it has been proven that when Stéphanie went to the fête she was dressed in a costume almost identical with that which I have just described to you as worn by the murderess."

      "But how, monsieur, was it possible to obtain such an accurate description of the woman who, you say, is suspected of this terrible crime?"

      "In the simplest manner possible, mademoiselle," answered Aristide, again narrowly observing the countenance of the young girl; "we have the testimony of the garçon who waited on Marrois, and who observed the gray domino intently; and we have besides" — he paused a moment to give force to his words — "we have besides a glove which she left behind her, stained with the blood of her victim."

      For one second Aristide fancied he could detect a faint and almost imperceptible quiver in the full red lips. The next he was obliged to confess himself mistaken; the only sign of emotion visible in the pale, statuesque features, was a slight smile, and the tone of Valiska's voice when she spoke was as soft and musical in its modulations as before.

      "How dramatic! how very dramatic! Upon my word, Monsieur Vis, you have missed your vocation in life. You should have been in the East, and there you might have become a professional adventurer or storyteller! How Ispahan and Bagdad would have resounded with your praises! But to return to what you were saying. Surely this blood-stained glove did not belong to Madame Marrois — you would not have me believe that?"

      "It, however, fits her hand now, mademoiselle."

      "Excuse me, but you say that 'now' with a very it not?" curious emphasis."

      "Everything about the affair is curious. Would you believe, mademoiselle, that this glove which the murderess dropped in her hasty flight and which was the only positive evidence against her — well, this glove has been stolen, and a substitute left in its place. A substitute upon which the thief has taken pains to impress the blood-marks that marred the original."

      "That seems almost incredible, monsieur. If I understand correctly, this Madame Marrois is a perfect stranger in Abois. Surely she could not possess an enemy capable of doing her such an injury?"

      "The desire to injure Madame Marrois was not the cause of this exchange; the poor woman is merely a scapegoat at whom suspicion is directed in order to shield the real criminal."

      "It is not possible, monsieur, that you could be mistaken?"

      "Entirely impossible; the glove that was found near Marrois's corpse was altogether too remarkable to be forgotten. Fancy to yourself that every one who saw this masked woman particularly noticed the beauty of her hand. I myself examined the glove with the greatest attention, and am satisfied that the hand which it covered must have been as perfect — as perfect — as your own, mademoiselle!"

      The slender white fingers swaying so deftly the large fan did not tremble in the slightest degree as Aristide struck this sudden blow.

      "Upon my word, monsieur," cried Mademoiselle Zortichoff, with a merry laugh, "you appear in a new rôle. I did not know you could be a flatterer."

      "How can you imagine a hermit guilty of such an offense as flattery? I spoke but the truth, and I am sure this is not the first time that you have heard the same compliment. Surely Captain Dantan or my uncle, Monsieur Léon ——"

      He stopped; for the first time a slight change was apparent in the calm countenance; a faint flush stole over the pale cheeks, and an anxious, inquiring expression appeared in the dark-gray eyes. The change was but momentary, but, short as it was, it did not escape the quick eye of Aristide, who quietly resumed the conversation, satisfied that he had at least made one discovery.

      "Ah, yes, mademoiselle, the theft of that glove has, I fear, deprived justice of the only chance of ever finding the real culprit."

      "Your words would imply a suspicion of some one, monsieur."

      "It is true. That glove was the foundation upon which I had built the hope of discovering the murderess."

      "A very frail foundation, you must acknowledge."

      "True; but trifles even apparently more insignificant have sometimes been the first link in the chain which has led to the conviction of the guilty. Well, mademoiselle, as Cuvier, from the smallest fossil, constructed the most immense mastodon, so I, from the slender palm and tapering fingers of that morsel of kid, evolved a portrait of the woman whose hand it once clothed."

      "How interesting! And this portrait, this evolution of your brain, may I inquire what it is like?"

      "Certainly! A tall, slender, graceful figure: a pale, perfect face, with large dark eyes."

      "Black eyes, monsieur?"

      "Ah, no, mademoiselle — gray, dark-gray; and a mouth and chin as delicately molded as a sculptor's dream."

      "The hair? Oh, I can imagine the hair. Blonde, is it not?"

      "As you say, of the purest blonde hue."

      "Nay, faith. You are, perhaps, not aware of it, but this photograph that you have drawn of your ideal murderess is almost identical with the reflection which my mirror shows me each morning. Are you, perhaps, about to accuse me, monsieur?"

      "What a question! You cannot imagine it. Besides, remember you were not at the fête."

      "That is true; but there is no knowing," continued Valiska, with a laugh, "what wild ideas will sometimes steal into the brains of you gentlemen. I consider myself very fortunate in being able to prove — what do you call it? — ah, yes, an alibi, I believe. Is not that the term? I shall have to be very attentive to Captain Dantan, for I must rely upon him and old Orloff as my witnesses."

      "I fear, mademoiselle," replied Aristide, in the same light, jesting tone employed by the young lady — "I fear Captain Dantan would be of little use to you, for I understood him to say he left you at your cottage at half-past eleven. Now, the masked woman did not reach the fête until after midnight."

      "And how could you know that, monsieur?"

      "Ah, those pretty hands betrayed her! The man who drove her to the garden might have forgotten her costume, but he did not forget her hands, and from him we learned the fact that it was after twelve when she entered his carriage, at the corner of the Rue d'Orville and Magenta."

      "Go on, go on, monsieur. You cannot imagine how interested I am."

      "Interested? I should think so."

      So absorbed were the two in this conversation, that the merry voice of Henriette, breaking in upon them, produced a mutual start of surprise.

      "So much interested, that you have had ears and eyes for no one else for the last hour. I declare, my dear, it is wrong to monopolize Monsieur Vis in this way. You forget that I am anxious to cross-question him about Henri's escapades in Paris, and there are my uncle and Monsieur Duquesnay, who have been looking anxiously in this direction for some time — too polite, of course, to interrupt you; but, as I can plainly see, both wishing themselves in monsieur's place. So now you must surrender him to me. Come, Monsieur Vis, I expect you to tell me all the wonderful exploits that you performed during the siege."

      "That is it," replied Captain Dantan, approaching the sofa; "you must make Aristide tell you his story. He was a famous man in Paris."

      "Famous, indeed," said Aristide, relapsing into his ordinary quaint, melancholy style; "famous as the inventor of a wonderful sauce, which I assure you, Mademoiselle Henriette, would make even horseflesh palatable. This was was my only claim to greatness."

      The gay laugh with which Henriette received this information, made more humorous by the mock-heroic manner of the speaker, attracted the attention of the other two gentlemen, who came forward and joined in the conversation, which now became general, turning chiefly upon incidents of the late war, and especially the siege of Paris.

      "Ah, monsieur," said Léon Dantan, as Aristide Vis concluded one of his episodes, illustrative of the heroism displayed by the defenders of the capital, "we, too, have our heroes; but, surely since you have been in Abois you must have heard of the Abbé Marteau? Such deeds as his cannot be too widely known."

      Aristide, confessing his ignorance, the mayor was about to speak, when he was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, announcing that dinner was served.

      The evening passed only too rapidly. Mademoiselle was prodigal in her efforts to please, and her talent as a musician was so extraordinary as to charm her hearers, and make them entirely oblivious of the lapse of time, so that it was really a matter of surprise to all when the domestic brought the information that Mademoiselle Zortichoff's servant was in waiting. The young lady arose instantly and prepared to depart.

      Throughout the entire evening Aristide had sought in vain to renew the conversation interrupted by Henriette, but, without making it noticeable, Valiska managed to evade all his efforts; he now, however, saw a way to accomplish his design, and stepping forward, he said, with a smile, that, as he and mademoiselle were neighbors, he trusted he might be allowed the privilege of seeing her to her cottage.

      After a slight hesitation the young lady accepted with a gracious inclination of her head.

      But Aristide had expected a tête-à-tête. He was doomed to disappointment, for Capatin Dantan declared that it was altogether too early to think of sleep, and proposed that he and his cousin should join them in their walk. Vis accepted his defeat with a good grace.

      "What was it I said to Monsieur Duquesnay?" muttered the young man to himself, falling, as if by instinct, into his habit of self-communion, when he separated from his friends at Mademoiselle Zortichoff's cottage. "If Justice ever finds this woman, she will be found ready and prepared with a full and complete defense; there will be no fear of tears or alarm. This affair grows more and more dark. I wish to God I was well out of it."

---

CHAPTER XV.

      SEVERAL days had passed since Aristide had taken voluntarily upon himself the defense of Stéphanie Marrois, and, in spite of all his efforts, he was fain to admit that so far, at least, he had accomplished nothing.

      No new discoveries came to reward the hours of toilsome thought that he had devoted to the study of the case. His first idea had been that the clue to the mystery could only be unraveled by finding the thief who had exchanged the gloves; but it did not take him long to come to the conclusion that this was by no means an easy task.

      Claude Duquesnay positively declared that the glove had been locked up in his desk ever since it came into his possession; and Léon Dantan was equally as positive in his assertion that it remained untouched in his pocket from the moment when he had placed it there on the night of the murder, until next morning, when he handed it to the judge.

      "Who could be the thief? Who could be the thief?" This was the one thought that now had possession of Aristide's brain; but the more he dwelt upon the matter the more difficult the solution appeared, especially when the affair was viewed in connection with the suspicion which had taken hold upon him on the occasion of his first visit to the mayor's house. Now he could not doubt the correctness of what he had said to Mademoiselle Zortichoff, namely, that this exchange of gloves had been made to draw all attention away from the real criminal.

      Could there then be another person who shared in his suspicion, and who was plotting as earnestly to defeat justice and protect the guilty, as he (Vis) was laboring in the cause of the law and innocence?

      He began to think that Stéphanie Marrois had a very poor champion indeed. He had catechized Madame Pichaud, but all that resulted from a number of interviews and a liberal outlay of five-franc pieces had been several long and voluble descriptions which, in the end, amounted to no more than the same testimony which the loquacious Aglaé had given to the judge.

      He had called on Stéphanie, but while acknowledging with the liveliest gratitude her thanks for his kindness and sympathy, the poor woman admitted that the whole affair was to her a complete mystery.

      The brigadier of gendarmes had also been interviewed with equal want of success. The man, in return for the profuse douceurs of Vis, was equally profuse in his offers of assistance, but as it soon appeared that he knew nothing that could be of any service, his offer amounted to very little.

      To sum up the whole matter, the more Aristide thought over the affair, the more was he obliged to acknowledge that, as far as he could see, the game was blocked.

      This was by no means a pleasant or encouraging thought, especially to a man who had not exactly a poor opinion of himself.

      Aristide, seated in his comfortable armchair in the little saloon of his cottage, surrounded by his books and pictures, seemed a man to be envied, but had any one at that moment asked him his own opinion of himself, he would, without hesitation, have declared that he was the most miserable and unfortunate creature in the world.

      For more than two hours he had been sitting there, turning over and over in his mind the insoluble mystery, looking at it now from this point, now from that, trying to recall the expression of this one's face, or to remember that person's words, until his brain was fairly dazed with the tumult and conflict of ideas.

      The sound of some one opening the door dimly forced itself in amongst this tangle of thought; he was vaguely conscious of the patter of light footsteps, and the soft rustling of skirts.

      "Well, well, what is it, Jeanne?" he inquired, in a dreamy, abstracted manner, as the disturber of his solitude stopped behind his chair.

      "But it is not Jeanne!" a merry, mocking voice replied, with a low, silvery laugh; a voice which aroused Aristide Vis from his dreamy abstraction, and sent his misty ideas and confused thoughts flying to the four winds of heaven, as suddenly as if a charge of dynamite had exploded beneath his feet; a voice which made him spin around in his chair with electrical rapidity, and gaze in helpless and bewildered wonder on the lovely Vision which stood before him. A Vision — all scarlet and black, as light and gay as a tropical bird. A Vision of big brown eyes under delicately arched brows; eyes at one moment sparkling with malicious mirth — the next, soft and tender as those of a dove. Cheeks glowing with blushes, warmly tinted as a moss-rose bud; the straight Grecian nose, exquisite mouth, and dimpled chin. A profusion of dark chestnut curls, falling so low, as to almost hide the white forehead; crowning this charming head, a large straw hat crushed into the latest mad caprice of fashion, adorned with long drooping ostrich feathers of scarlet and black, and further embellished with a hideously natural green lizard, which seemed to be peeping down at the lovely face below. The costume, of black satin and Spanish lace, with its bunches of scarlet and crimson flowers, had been artistically fashioned, to make more apparent the perfect form which it clothed; and the small hands in their long black kid gloves, which rested so familiarly on the young man's chair, were dainty enough for Titania herself.

      "Well," said the visitor, after some moments of silence, seeing that Aristide was too much overcome to speak — "well, mon cher, when you succeed in recovering control of that erratic brain of yours, perhaps you will have the courtesy to offer me a chair, for you surely do not intend to sit there staring at me in that ridiculous manner all day?"

      The young man arose in mechanical obedience at this reproof, and the lady, with the most nonchalant manner possible, took possession of the comfortable chair thus resigned, spread out her skirts, and crossed her slender feet on the philosopher's footstool, as if her presence in the hermit's sanctuary was the most natural thing in the world.

      "And so I have found you, my friend," continued the beauty, as she nestled herself snugly in the luxurious cushion; "and now, perhaps, you will explain to me what induced you to run away from Paris in that mad fashion, and leave me to be looked on as a forsaken Ariadne. I declare I can scarcely forgive you for your stupid conduct. There! for mercy's sake, don't look at me in that melancholy way. You forget that there is such a thing as a law of Interdiction in France, and if you continue in your eccentricities, your friends will certainly have to lock you up for safety."

      "Angelique!"

      "Oh, yes, I am really angry with you! Only fancy, exposing me in the manner you did to the mock sympathy of my friends. Why, you had not been gone twenty-four hours before Lucie de Veilleurs was at my house shedding her crocodile tears over what she called 'my desertion.' Desertion, indeed! I told her very quickly that this was no case of a lost lover, like her affair with Charles de Rivière; that my bad sou was only mislaid, and liable to turn up at any moment — and you see I was right; but do, for heaven's sake, banish that look of stupidity from your face."

      "Excuse me, my dear Madame d'Aubrac," replied Vis, who had managed at length to recover from the mental whirl into which he had been thrown by this startling and unexpected visitation. "Excuse me, madame, but really, I am so surprised, so completely overwhelmed, by the honor which you have done me, that you should not be astonished at my inability to find words to express my sense of gratitude. You will, however, permit me to say that I cannot imagine to what I am indebted for this distinguished favor."

      "Ah, my friend, that sounds very grave and fine indeed; but, as long ago I had determined that, when I was tired of balls and fêtes, and disposed to look for a successor to my poor general, you should be the man, I was not willing to allow you to escape me so easily."

      "Madame! I am surprised."

      "Surprised? There is no reason for that. It seems to me that the last time I had the pleasure of seeing you, you did me the honor to ask for my hand."

      "And perhaps, madame," replied Aristide, stiffly, "since your memory is so good, you may remember the answer you gave me?"

      "Why, yes! of course!" cried Madame d'Aubrac, with a gay laugh. "I told you then that you were my Fate, but that I was not willing as yet to surrender myself to destiny."

      "That is to say, madame, you laughed at my proposal."

      "By no means, monsieur; but you were foolish enough to take my jest in earnest, and without giving me a chance for explanation, you ran away from Paris like a veritable schoolboy trying to escape punishment. Of course I did not pay you the compliment to hunt for you. I said to myself, I will hear of him sooner or later. and as Paris was getting dull and hot, I accepted old Madame Vidaumont's invitation to form one of a party of young people whom the good old lady was to chaperon at Monte Carlo. Well, mon cher, it did not take me long to grow heartily sick of all the noisy gayety and life of that wicked place; and just when I had gone through my wardrobe, just when my last new dress had been worn, chance threw into my hand a newspaper with a long and thrilling account of a mysterious and blood-curdling murder at Abois. I cannot imagine what induced me to read it, for, as you know, my friend, I am not given to that style of literature. But only conceive my astonishment when the first name I saw in connection with the terrible affair was your own. So I was right, I said to myself; here is my bad sou at last. I was sick to death of Monte Carlo, and sicker still, I believe, of Trouville and all the other fashionable places, so I said to myself, Why not go down to Abois? It is in the country, and possesses the charm of novelty at least; and so you see, my dear, here I am! And now perhaps you will be equally open in your confession, and tell me how you have been employed since the day you deserted me so shamefully?"

      "Oh, quietly enough, madame," answered Aristide, who had now recovered fully his calm and placid manner. "There is just a sufficiency of the country here to please a man of my pastoral taste, and enough of civilization to assure me a perfectly cooked meal."

      "Oh! you sybarite! and your Paradise has perchance an Eve who has taken my place in your fickle affection?"

      "Two or three, madame."

      "You surprise me, monsieur! I thought you cultivated the character of a misogamist."

      "I did in Paris; but here in the country, you know, it is all so different. In the first place, the young ladies are not flirts."

      "Is that, perhaps, an insinuation, monsieur?"

      "Oh, by no means; merely a statement of fact."

      "And among these charming ladies that do not flirt, may I ask if you have found one to suit your fastidious taste?"

      With an air of pretended confusion that was well feigned, Aristide muttered an affirmative:

      "Perhaps, madame."

      "Would it be indiscreet to ask the name of your new inamorata?" said Madame d'Aubrac, with a slight deepening of the rosy flush upon her cheek.

      "You know my candid nature, madame. I could never conceal anything from you. It is a Mademoiselle Valiska Zortichoff."

      "A Russian? An adventuress, of course; all Russian ladies are that, I believe."

      "Can't say," replied Aristide, with an airy move of his hand; "all I know is, that the young lady is perfectly irresistible."

      "A brunette?"

      "Oh! by no means. You know I could never learn to admire brunettes. A blonde, tall and slender, with lovely soft blue eyes, full of innocence and truth."

      "Why, upon my word, monsieur, you are becoming absolutely poetical."

      "The subject, madame, might give an inspiration to even a more prosaical, matter-of-fact person than myself."

      "You know that I do not like blondes, they are always deceitful," replied the lady, tapping her little foot impatiently on the floor.

      "In that case perhaps you would be better pleased with Mademoiselle Henriette Rousel. Mademoiselle is a brunette, with brown hair and eyes."

      "Rousel! — Henriette Rousel! — where have I heard that name before?" inquired Madame d'Aubrac. "Oh! I remember now; that is the name of the fiancée of your friend, Monsieur Dantan, that charming gentleman whom you introduced to me. And pray, what has become of him?"

      "Since you remember him so well, you will doubtless be pleased to know that he is here in Abois."

      "Delighted, upon my word! Mon cher, you must present him to me at once, otherwise I fear I shall find it dull in this pastoral Eden of yours, as you say we brunettes cannot do without our flirtations. And now," continued the lady, as she languidly arose from her comfortable seat — "now, my dear, I think I have done you enough honor for one day; besides, I fear this country life is making you just a trifle dull and uninteresting. Adieu. You will find me at the Hotel de Belfort; but do not come unless you bring Monsieur Dantan. My best wishes to your blonde. Adieu and au revoir."

      And with a bewitching smile and the same gentle rustling of her silken skirts which had heralded her approach, the lady swept from the chamber.

      "Angelique!" murmured Aristide to himself. "Angelique, indeed! Diabolique would have been better!" and with this consoling sarcasm, the philosopher sank into his chair with a grunt of satisfaction, and sought in vain to turn his thoughts again to the subject of Marrois's murder.

---

CHAPTER XVI.

      THE freedom which the hermit of Abois had won by his ignoble flight from Paris was lost and gone. That ideal life of calm and placid philosophical abstraction, pleasantly enlivened by the discussion of some magnificent work of art from the fertile imagination of Père Dubois, had come to an untimely end. Madame d'Aubrac was a despotic little tyrant, who demanded from her liege subjects the utmost prodigality in the way of courtship and adulation, and poor Aristide very rapidly found himself relegated to his former condition of servile submission and passive obedience. It is true that he did not submit without an effort, and even went the length of trying to arouse his sovereign's jealousy by the most marked and open attention to Valiska Zortichoff. But this attempted diversion proved a lamentable failure, and each day he found himself more and more completely involved in the meshes of the net which had formerly ensnared him.

      As for Madame d'Aubrac, she declared herself charmed with her new surroundings. Abois was simply delicious; the scenery, a marvel of beauty; and the gentlemen, really adorable. She was like a child just escaped from school: she plunged with the utmost zest and enthusiasm into all the amusements which Abois afforded; dazzled the provincials with her brilliant toilets; the splendor of her jewels, her wonderful gloves, and marvelous bottines; and rapidly gathered around her a gay coterie of young people, as careless and light-hearted as herself, who made her salon re-echo with their zest and merriment. She was soon involved in a number of flirtations, more or less serious.

      A similarity of taste and disposition between the baroness and Henriette produced an instantaneous friendship, which rapidly grew into such fervid intensity that the pair were not satisfied to be separated from each other for even the shortest time.

      Two only of his new acquaintances, whom Aristide hastened to present, failed to find favor in Angelique's eyes. These were Mademoiselle Zortichoff and Léon Dantan.

      "It is no use, my friend," said the baroness, when, taking advantage of a tête-à-tête with the gay lady, Aristide was pleading for the forty-second time the cause of his friends; "all your arguments will never make me like your Russian. I am sure I cannot see what you men find to admire in those blonde-haired girls, with their pale, expressionless features; and just let me tell you, that for all their look of saintly innocence, they are far worse than we brunettes. Icicles, with a devouring flame always burning beneath the frozen surface. Now, you know, with us, it is a flash, an explosion, and that is the end of it."

      Aristide faintly murmured something about such explosions sometimes resulting fatally; but the lady, evidently enthused with her subject, paid no attention to this interruption, but dismissing it with a wave of her hand, she went on:

      "Yes! With us, as I said, it is a thunderstorm; over in a moment and forgotten. But with these blondes it is quite different. They treasure up an injury and brood over it for months. Oh, I can tell you they are awfully vindictive and revengeful. I assure you, if I were in Henriette's place, I should be greatly alarmed. I believe this Valiska could be as cold-blooded and remorseless as the wretch who murdered that poor Monsieur 'Parrois, or 'Barrois' — which was it?"

      Aristide could scarcely stifle the exclamation of surprise produced by these words of the baroness, but a glance at the lady's face convinced him that there was no concealed meaning in the insinuation, or lurking suspicion, such as that which had proved his torment for so many days.

      "And pray why?" he hazarded the inquiry timidly — "why should Mademoiselle Henriette be especially alarmed?"

      "What a question? I declare, Aristide, you are as blind as a bat; an absolute mole! Cannot you see that this lovely Russian is heels-over-head in love with Captain Dantan? On my soul, the way she throws herself at him is simply disgusting; and it speaks volumes for the young man's innocence, that he seems not to be aware of this 'grande passion.'"

      "I am sure you must be mistaken, Angelique."

      "Nothing of the kind, my dear. Heaven gifted me with good eyesight. Now, you know if there is one thing that I do detest, it is a flirt; and your Valiska is an outrageous flirt. See that poor Léon Dantan."

      "I am afraid Monsieur Dantan is not a favorite of yours?"

      "The man is simply a fool! a veritable idiot! Bah! you need not open your eyes in that way. You will never make me believe that you are not aware of Monsieur le Maire's amourette. When these old men take it into their heads to fall in love with young girls, they are just too ridiculous. Why, he blushes like a schoolboy whenever his inamorata speaks to him. I hate this slavish submission in a man, I do, indeed," she continued, emphatically. "Do you know, I believe that I should prefer to have a man beat me rather than always be my humble servant? You need not look surprised, for I assure you I am not jesting. What I want is some one to look up to as a master, a creature far above me ——"

      A period was suddenly put to this grandiloquent declamation of the baroness by the entrance of Captain Dantan and his cousin. The greeting exchanged between the two ladies was in the last degree warm and effusive.

      "Yes, ma chère," said Henriette, with a laugh, "here I am again. I could not stay away. I absolutely could not. So I made Henri fetch me; and now I want you all to myself the whole evening."

      "That seems to me very like a dismissal, Aristide," said Captain Dantan.

      "Oh, no," replied Mademoiselle Rousel. "You gentlemen may remain here for, say, five minutes, and then I know you will have the politeness to go somewhere and smoke your cigars."

      "On my word, my poor Aristide," Captain Dantan laughingly remarked, as the two young men emerged from the Hotel de Belfort, and sauntered down the street, "madame has you completely in her toils. I declare it astonishes me to see you in the character of a tame cat — you who used to preach me such fine lectures on the supremacy of men."

      "Oh, my friend, there is a great deal of difference, I must admit, between precept and practice. Even Hercules, you know, had his Omphale. What man can struggle against his fate?"

      "I am sure," cried Henri, smiling at the serious manner of his friend, "if my fate came in as charming a form as Madame d'Aubrac, I should not try to escape it at all. She certainly is one of the most fascinating women I ever met. I vow you are a very lucky fellow indeed."

      "Are you sure that a fascinating woman like Madame d'Aubrac, for instance, is calculated to harmonize with philosophic thought?"

      "Philosophic thought be hanged! I never saw one of you philosophers yet who would hesitate to choose between a lovely woman and a musty old volume. Take my word for it, the reality of life is the best, after all. Ah, Aristide, what a humbug you are!"

      "Nonsense, my friend," replied Vis; "but tell me, I beg of you, who is that gentleman in black there, just on the other side of the way? He seems to be a person of importance, if I am to judge from the extent of his bowing acquaintance, for I swear he has received a salute from every man, woman and child who has passed him."

      This person to whom Vis alluded was a tall, elderly man with a smooth-shaven face, and an expression of great benignity in his handsome features. His long black coat had something so clerical about it that Aristide was not surprised when Captain Dantan, after a glance, replied:

      "Oh! that? That is the Abbé Marteau; he is the big gun of Abois. My uncle told you his story, I think."

      "No; he was about to do so, when something interrupted him."

      "Well, I am not exactly familiar with the affair, but his conduct seems to have been something very heroic. I believe charges were brought against the inhabitants of Abois of maltreating German prisoners during the last war, and Monsieur Bismarck, with the intention of making an example, suddenly pounced down on the place and informed the citizens that they were to select two of their number to be shot, as a warning to all the other French towns. Well, if I am not mistaken, the thing went so far that two unfortunates were chosen and about to be executed, when the Abbé came forward and proffered himself as a substitute for the condemned. Very heroic, was it not?"

      "It was, indeed! And the end of the affair?"

      "Oh! the nobleness of the offer produced an effect even upon Bismarck; the sentence was rescinded, and the two citizens restored to liberty with the warning to 'go and sin no more.'"

      During this conversation the friends had unconsciously turned into a side street, which brought them at length to the Cemetery of St. Jean. This was usually a favorite place of resort for the young people of Abois, the ground being handsomely laid out, and affording a pleasant promenade. But upon this evening only two figures were visible within the inclosure, a man and a woman. Their backs were turned toward the newcomers, but Aristide and Henri immediately recognized the graceful form of Valiska Zortichoff, in black, whose general appearance seemed not unfamiliar to Aristide; but while he was struggling to locate the unknown, the couple turned, and to the unbounded astonishment of Vis, the strange gentleman proved to be Charles Guimand, the agent of Police. This discovery staggered Aristide, and for a moment he was not able to reply to Henri, who had also recognized the detective, and inquired:

      "What the devil he supposed that fellow had to do with Mademoiselle Zortichoff?"

      But this was just the question which now had complete possession of Vis's brain, and he was mentally asking himself whether it was possible that Guimand shared in his suspicion of the young lady? While he was revolving this thought in his mind the agent chanced to look up. He started slightly on beholding the two gentlemen, and with a low bow abruptly left the young lady, turning down one of the sidewalks.

      Valiska came hastily forward, and as she drew near, Aristide could plainly discern the traces of deep emotion in the pallor of her countenance and the agitation of her manner. She was the first to speak, though it evidently required a great effort.

      "Can you tell me, monsieur, who is is that strange gentleman who left me just now?"

      "I trust, mademoiselle," said Captain Dantan, "that the man has not been annoying you?"

      "No, not annoying, but he has asked me such curious questions. Perhaps, I should not have been alarmed if I had not accidentally noticed that we were entirely alone in the cemetery."

      "The man is a police agent, mademoiselle," said Aristide, speaking gravely, and studying the face of the girl as she spoke. "He was sent here to investigate the Marrois murder; but, may I ask how you came to meet him?"

      "Very simply, monsieur; I usually walk here in the cemetery, and this evening I was taking my accustomed exercise, when the man came forward and addressed me, saying he was a stranger in Abois, and wished to know if this was the Cemetery of St. Jean. I answered in the affirmative, and thought he would leave me; but, to my surprise, he went on asking other questions about the town. I became, at length, alarmed at his pertinacity, especially when I noticed, as I said before, that we were alone. It was just at this moment that he must have remarked your presence, for he left me abruptly."

      "It was a gross piece of impertinence on the fellow's part to speak to you at all, and I will see that he is well reprimanded. I cannot think how he could have the audacity to take such a liberty."

      "Oh, after all, monsieur, the man was not really impolite, and his manner was perfectly respectful. Perhaps, I was unnecessarily timid. I should prefer that you would not mention the affair."

      "As you please, mademoiselle; but I see you are walking in the direction of your cottage — you will allow Monsieur Vis and myself the pleasure of accompanying you home?"

      "I wonder what those curious questions were?" thought Aristide. "I wonder had they anything to do with the Marrois murder?"

      It was nearly dusk when they reached the cottage. Old Orloff was standing in the gateway, evidently on the lookout for his mistress, and in answer to her inquiries after her brother, replied, with a surly growl of reproof, that Sergius "was not feeling well, and had retired."

      "You must not be angry with my poor Orloff," said Valiska, with a smile, as the old man, still grumbling to himself, stamped away in the direction of the house; "he never can get over the habit of looking on my brother and myself as children, and I assure you, sometimes he scolds us awfully. But, will you not come in? It is still early. I received some new music to-day, Captain Dantan, of which, I would like your opinion."

      Seeing, from the expression of his friend's face, that Henri was desirous of accepting the invitation, Aristide muttered something about an engagement at the "hotel," but this, the captain overruled, declaring there was plenty of time, and that if Mademoiselle Valiska would permit, he would just remain long enough to listen to the new music.

      "I believe that devil of an Angelique is right, after all," said Aristide to himself, as he sat in the little parlor attentively studying the faces of his two companions, as they hung over the piano. "Mademoiselle Henriette will have to watch my gay friend closely; for, if that girl goes on making eyes at him, there's no telling what will happen. I don't know whether I could resist the expression of those gray orbs myself, and poor Henri always was weak toward pretty women. It would be a nice kettle-of-fish if uncle and nephew should become rivals in reality. Upon my soul, Angelique is as keen-sighted as a hawk; only to think of her seeing all that in the few short days she has been here." This remembrance of Madame d'Aubrac's astuteness formed a link in the chain of thought which led Vis's mind away to a consideration of the lady herself, a theme so fertile, that the time passed by unnoticed. Indeed, so entirely was Aristide absorbed in thought, and Captain Dantan in the music, that the sound of a small clock on the mantel striking eleven was a startling interruption to both gentlemen. They rose immediately, and, with a hasty apology for the inconsiderate length of their stay, bade Mademoiselle Valiska "good-night."

      "Why in the devil's name did you let me stay so late?" said Dantan, as old Orloff closed the garden-gate upon them with a growl, which might equally as well be interpreted to mean either a blessing or a curse. "Henrietta will give me a proper scolding."

      "Well, I like that," replied Aristide; "don't imagine I am going to shoulder your sins; I assure you I have enough of my own to carry."

      Mutually reproaching each other in this way, the friends hurried along the Rue d'Orville.

      The night was intensely dark, and the street so badly lighted, that it was with difficulty they could find their way; after a few moments, however, they turned into the Rue Magenta, the main thoroughfare of the town.

      "Confound it!" cried Henri; "that place was as black as pitch; I thought we would never get out of it."

      The young men had increased their pace, and were crossing one of the intersections of the avenue, when a person coming at great speed from down the side street suddenly collided with Captain Dantan. The shock must have been a very severe one, for the unfortunate pedestrian staggered and seemed about to fall; but, recovering, muttered a "Pardon, monsieur!" and hastened on.

      The whole thing passed so rapidly, that Aristide could only make out that the unknown was tall, slender, and dressed in a long, dark, shapeless garment; he was, therefore, very much surprised when Henri said:

      "I hope that poor woman did not hurt herself. I wonder where she is going at this time of night, and in such haste, too?"

      "You have very sharp eyes, my friend," replied Vis; "to me that person was nothing but an indistinct shape. Pray how did you recognize that it was a woman?"

      "Oh, my eyes were of little more use than your own. I believe I caught a glimpse of a pale face, but so vaguely, that I haven't the slightest idea what it was like. No, my friend; I went by the ear entirely. The voice that said, 'Pardon, monsieur!' was unmistakably the voice of a woman."

      "Well, mon ami," Aristide answered, laughingly, "the woman will be apt to remember you, for you must have left a permanent impression on her. But come on, come on! It won't do to stay here talking over your fair stranger. You forget Mademoiselle Henriette."

      The entrance to the Hotel de Belfort was still brilliantly lighted when they reached it, though the absence of the usual throng of attendants bespoke the lateness of the hour.

      Henri, who was slightly in advance, was springing up the broad marble steps, when he felt his shoulder suddenly seized in a vise-like grip, and the voice of Aristide broke on his ear, but in tones so changed as to be almost unrecognizable:

      "God of heaven, Henri! what is that upon your sleeve?"

      The young man turned suddenly at these words.

      Vis, pale as death, and overcome with nervous emotion, was pointing to the right arm of his friend.

      Following the direction of the trembling finger, Dantan could scarcely suppress an exclamation of horror when he saw, distinctly marked upon the sleeve of his gray Summer coat, the imprint of a bloody hand.

---

CHAPTER XVII.

      FOR some moments this startling discovery rendered the young men absolutely speechless and motionless. "By heaven!" cried Henri Dantan, suddenly breaking the silence. "It was that woman. I remember now I felt her catch hold of my arm to save herself from falling. What can it mean?"

      "Come," replied Vis, speaking in an agitated whisper, and at the same time dragging his friend down the stairs, "I feel something within me that tells me we are going to discover a frightful crime. Come on."

      He hurried Dantan along the street at a rapid pace.

      "Wait!" he suddenly cried, stopping abruptly after they had gone a short distance. "You ought to know the streets of this infernal town. Can you remember where it was we met that woman?"

      "Certainly; that street down which we came was the Rue Valcourt."

      "Then that is where our search must begin."

      Without another word the two hastened on. They had almost reached their destination when they came suddenly upon a gendarme.

      The soldier recognized Captain Dantan immediately, and saluted.

      It took but a few moments to explain to the man what had happened, and bidding him follow them, the friends continued their rapid walk.

      The Rue Valcourt was enveloped in darkness; the street-lamps were scattered at such distances as to be absolutely useless. Not a light was visible in any of the houses, nor a single pedestrian to be seen upon the sidewalks.

      "What are we to do?" inquired Henri. "Everything appears as quiet as death. I can scarcely see my hand before my face."

      "Wait," replied Aristide. "That woman," he continued, after a moment's thought — "that woman had come but a short distance when we met her. I am satisfied of that. If we only had a light!"

      "Oh, as for that, monsieur," interrupted the gendarme, "I have my lantern in my pocket."

      "Then light it at once."

      The man obeyed, and a ray of light from the bull's-eye of the lantern was soon illuminating the darkness.

      "Which way, monsieur?" he inquired of Aristide, to whom, by tacit consent, he seemed to look for advice.

      "It was the left-hand side of the way, Henri, was it not?"

      The captain nodded affirmatively.

      "Then we must try that side first," continued Vis. "You go on before with the lantern, and we'll follow."

      The search was destined to be a short one.

      They had not passed over three-quarters of the square in the order described, when the gendarme, who was slightly in advance, uttered a loud exclamation, which instantly brought the two friends to his side.

      "See here, messieurs, see here!" cried the man, excitedly, flashing the light of his lantern on the sidewalk.

      "As I live, here is the print of a foot in blood! A woman's foot, messieurs."

      Aristide was down on his knees in a moment. A single glance was enough to convince him that the gendarme was correct. There, on the flagstone of the pavement, the slender outlines of a woman's foot was distinctly imprinted.

      "And here is another!" cried Henri, who had walked a few steps further on. "And, mon Dieu! come here, Aristide! come here! Here is a stream of blood trickling down the steps of this house."

      This fearful discovery brought the two others to Captain Dantan's side, and the full light of the lantern was thrown upon the entrance. For a few moments they stood rooted to the spot, staring with horror-stricken eyes at the ghastly sight.

      A broad crimson flood was welling out from beneath the door, and slowly dropping from step to step.

      "Who lives here?" murmured Aristide, in a voice barely audible.

      The gendarme recovered himself with a start, and replied, in tones scarcely more distinct than those of the other:

      "It is a store kept by an old woman named Robert. She lives here with her daughter in a little room behind the shop. Shall I try the door?" continued the man, who, more accustomed to such horrible sights, was beginning to regain his composure, and, without waiting for any reply, he ascended the steps.

      "It's locked!" he cried. "Shall I knock?"

      And again, without waiting for a reply, he proceeded to hammer with all his force upon the panels. No answer from within; but as he continued his blows, the noise soon alarmed the neighbors. Windows were quickly raised, and eager voices, in accents of alarm, demanded, "What was the matter?"

      The reply of the gendarme soon filled the street with an excited throng, who crowded around the front of the ill-fated house, gazing with white faces on the awful sight. The next moment a hundred voices were raised in clamorous questioning.

      Lights flashed in the houses, and women began to pour out, adding their shrill voices to the louder tones of the men.

      Suddenly some one, on the outskirts of the crowd, raised the cry of "Murder!" and the next moment that fearful word was resounding through the streets.

      Men, women and children ran excitedly in every direction, spreading the alarm. No one sought to render any assistance to the gendarme in his efforts to obtain admission to the house. Nobody appeared to have any other idea than that of spreading the ghastly tidings throughout the town as quickly as possible. In vain did both Captain Dantan and Aristide call on the citizens to aid them in an effort to burst open the door; they were not even listened to. It was with a feeling of absolute delight that the young men welcomed the appearance of the first blue-and-yellow uniform. Another followed, and shortly eight or ten gendarmes collected around the spot.

      The nephew of the mayor was known to all of them, and in answer to his questions they hastened to inform him that a messenger had been sent to notify the Chef de Police. Upon Aristide suggesting that the door should be immediately broken open, the men hesitated irresolutely, saying it would be better to wait for the arrival of the Chef. The delay seemed interminable, although not more than a few minutes could have elapsed, when one of the gendarmes cried out, "Here comes Monsieur le Chef!" and the crowd, making way respectfully, formed a lane through the dense throng, along which a gentleman hurriedly advanced, followed by two companions.

      Vis recognized the tall figure and the keen, intelligent features of the person whom he had seen once before, in the office of the Juge d'Instruction. The men who accompanied him were a gendarme, and Charles Guimand, the agent of police.

      Henri hurried to meet the newcomer, and greeted him eagerly, at the same time pouring out his story with voluble excitement. The chief listened with grave attention, and upon the conclusion of the narrative closely examined the hand-print upon the sleeve of the captain's coat, and the blood-stains on the doorsteps. After a brief investigation he arose to his feet, his pale face bearing witness to the effect produced upon him by that hideous stream of blood, and said, in a decided tone, "The door of this house must be broken open; we must enter at once."

      "Excuse me, monsieur," interrupted the detective; "but would it not be better first to make a careful examination of the exterior? Monsieur," he continued, with a bow toward Henri, "speaks of footprints on the pavement; it seems to me they should be examined at once if we wish to obtain any clew from them, for, if we delay, they may be as completely effaced as those upon the steps, which, if Monsieur le Chef will look closely, he will see have been completely obliterated by the gendarme, accidentally, of course, in his efforts to obtain admission to the house."

      It was, indeed, true; the broad impression of a man's shoe had defaced the outlines of the delicate footprints which both Aristide and Henri had noticed on the steps of the house. Nothing remained but just sufficient of one of these outlines to show the exquisite symmetry of the foot which had made the impression.

      The Chief of Police uttered an exclamation of chagrin at this discovery, and hastily ordered the crowd to fall lack. It was with some difficulty that the police succeeded in enforcing his order, and when, at length, it was accomplished, and the pavement cleared, it appeared but too quickly that the forebodings of the detective were indeed well-founded. Every trace of the bloody footprints had disappeared from the flagstones. While the chief stood gnawing his lip with vexation at this unfortunate and, as it appeared, irreparable, loss of what might have proved a valuable clew, one of the gendarmes came forward and handed to his superior an object which he said had just been found at the corner of the Rue Magenta. It was a large key, the handle grimed with blood and dust. This key aroused the chief from his fit of depression, and spurred him into renewed activity. He quickly returned to the house, ascended the steps, inserted the key in the lock, and opened the door. The place was as dark as night and as silent as the grave. Inviting the young men to follow him, the chief, accompanied by Guimand and two gendarmes, entered the building and closed the door behind him.

      The lanterns of the police, piercing the obscurity with their narrow lanes of light, made the interior dimly and vaguely visible. It was fitted up as a small shop, with shelves upon the wall, and a counter at the back, stretching the entire length of the room. Upon the shelves and counter were a number of boxes, packages, bundles, etc., all the little accessories of a thread-and-needle store. From the low, dark ceiling hung several shawls, colored handkerchiefs, and pieces of cotton stuff, which still waved like funereal banners from the draft of air which had been created by the opening of the door. The shop appeared entirely untenanted, but the floor was wet and sloppy with a warm and sticky flood. With pallid faces and trembling hands the chief and his companions hesitated upon the threshold as if loath to soil their feet in those gory stains. The voice of the chief sounded fearfully loud as it broke the ghastly silence, although in reality its tones were lowered to a deep, husky whisper.

      "The entrance to the sleeping-room is there behind the counter, is it not?" he inquired, looking at one of his men, whose only reply was an affirmative nod of the head.

      "Go around, Jacques; we will follow you."

      The man obeyed, though with evident reluctance. Splashing through the blood, he opened the little door, which gave admission behind the counter; but almost immediately recoiled with an exclamation of terror.

      "Mère de Dieu! Monsieur le Chef," he cried, "there is the body of a woman lying here, all in a heap, behind the counter!"

      The man's words brought the others quickly to his side, and the light of both lanterns were thrown upon the narrow space between the counter and the shelves. There, as the gendarme had said, lay the body of a woman. She was stretched upon her back; her upturned face was absolutely as white and colorless as a sheet of paper, and across the throat was a fearful gash, which had almost severed the head from the body. The face of the chief was as pallid as that of the murdered woman, when, seizing Aristide, who stood nearest him, by the arm with a grip of iron, he pointed to the upturned countenance of the dead, and cried, in a voice tremulous with uncontrollable emotion:

      "See, monsieur, see! there on the forehead of this unfortunate creature, the same, the very same marks! The assassin of Pierre Marrois has been here!"

      A single glance confirmed the words of the excited man. There, on the marble-like brow of the corpse, was the same blood-red cross which Aristide had noticed for the first time, in the dimly-lighted arbor, on the face of the murdered Marrois.

(To be continued.)

      A HEAVY knock upon the outer door, in the over-excited state of every one's nerves, reverberated through the room with the intensity of a peal of thunder. At a glance from the chief, one of the men hastened to answer the summons, and after a short parley opened the door, and admitted the Juge d'Instruction and Léon Dantan. In the meantime the body of the murdered woman had been lifted from the floor and placed upon the counter, and the second gendarme had just lighted a large brass lamp, which hung by chains from the ceiling, as the newcomers, conquering the feeling of repugnance which was aroused within them at the sight of the blood-stained floor, approached the group gathered around the counter.

      The light of the lamp fell full upon the face of the corpse, and all the horror of that ghastly sight broke upon them at the first glance. The pale face and clinched teeth of Claude Duquesnay revealed the agitation which he struggled to master; but the emotion exhibited by the mayor astonished every one. His face rivaled that of the dead woman in its pallid and ashen hue; large drops of perspiration stood upon his clammy forehead; he reeled, staggered backward, and would have fallen to the ground, had not Duquesnay and Henri caught him in their arms.

      "Mon Dieu, Léon!" said the judge. "Bear up, man, bear up. This is a terrible sight, but our duty is not to weep and lament the dead, but rather to strive, if possible, to avenge them."

      Dantan, who had concealed his face upon his nephew's shoulder, looked up at these words from his friend, revealing as he did so a countenance in which was stamped the look of such agony, in the wild staring eyes and quivering features, as sent a chill to the heart of every one.

      Gazing on the agitated visage of the mayor, Aristide suddenly remembered the strange conversation between Léon and himself upon the occasion of his first visit to that gentleman's house.

      Could the old idea, the old suspicion which had evidently caused such uneasiness to Monsieur Dantan, and which seemed to have been partially allayed when the Argus-eye of justice fixed upon Stéphanie Marrois as the agent of her husband's death? Could this old suspicion now have returned in the presence of another corpse, which bore upon it the fatal sign-manual of Marrois's assassin?

      Studying the faces of his companions to see if he could read in any of them thoughts similar to his own, his eyes suddenly fell upon Charles Guimand, the agent of police from Paris.

      The man was watching the mayor with the utmost closeness and attention, with a keen, inquiring expression in his gray eyes that to Vis seemed very like the glance of suspicion.

      Aristide had but a moment for his observation; for, as if by some mesmeric influence, the eyes of the detective were suddenly attracted to him. It was like the removal of a mask; the keen, suspicious look disappeared as if by enchantment, and the man's face resumed its habitual expression.

      While this was passing, Léon Dantan had managed by a vigorous effort to regain his calmness, though his countenance still bore traces of the violence of the struggle that had been required to accomplish this conquest of his emotion. His voice was low and tremulous when he spoke.

      "Mon Dieu, Claude!" he said. "What does this mean? Is our unfortunate town accursed? I say again, what does this mean? You spoke of revenge, of jealousy, when I asked you this question before; but who could entertain feelings of revenge or jealousy against this unfortunate? Poor Pauline Robert! Poor woman!"

      The tears gathered in his eyes as he said these words, and grief rendered him silent for the moment.

      "It does indeed seem inexplicable," replied the judge. Everything about this place appears undisturbed. This could never have been the work of a robber."

      He looked inquiringly toward the chief of police, who hastened to answer the implied question.

      "Certainly not, Monsieur le Juge. As you say, everything is undisturbed. Nothing has been carried away; and indeed these people were too poor to attract the attention of even the most sordid thief. But, ciel!" he exclaimed, suddenly, striking his forehead with his clinched fist — "but, ciel, we are forgetting that two women lived in this house! Poor Madame Robert! Can she, too, have fallen a victim to this brutal assassin?"

      "The mother and daughter lived behind the shop, did they not?" asked Duquesnay.

      "Yes; in there."

      The chief pointed to a small arched doorway behind the counter.

      A curtain of dark calico hung before the entrance, revealing the room beyond.

      For a moment a universal feeling of hesitation, a dread of what might be concealed behind that dark curtain, kept every one motionless, until the judge said, firmly:

      "Come, let us see the end of this, be it what it may."

      These determined words inspired renewed activity in the search.

      As the chief of police pushed aside the curtain, and the light from the lamp penetrated into the chamber beyond, a groan broke from the lips of every one, as a single glance satisfied them that the dismal forebodings of the chief were about to be realized.

      The little room bore unmistakable traces that the murderer had been there, too. The uncarpeted floor was tracked with blood, and the sheets hanging from a bed at the furthest side were streaked with the same fatal stain, though what might be within the bed was hidden by the tight-drawn curtains. With the exception of these blood-stains there was no evidence of any unusual disarrangement of the apartment. Several pieces of common furniture stood against the walls, and in the centre was a large round table, which supported a shaded lamp and a basket of needlework. Two or three rush. bottomed chairs, one of which was drawn close up to the side of the table, completed the furniture of the room, which bore in every part the unmistakable imprint of poverty. The condition of the bed seemed to indicate that his worst fears were about to be realized; the chief hesitated no longer, but firmly crossing the room, pulled apart the curtains of the bed.

      "Come, messieurs," he said, in a hollow voice, beckoning to the others to advance; "come, here is another."

      It was a piteous sight, indeed, and one that might have softened the hardest heart.

      This second victim was an old and decrepit woman. The few strands of hair that straggled out from under her tight-fitting cap were white as the driven snow, and her thin, attenuated features, bore token not only of advanced age, but also of the wasting hand of want and suffering. The eyes were closed, and the general expression of the face was one of calm repose; but upon the wrinkled forehead was that same terrible cross; and a deep cut across the shrunken neck had severed the life-giving arteries. The lower part of the body was shrouded in the bedclothes, and these as well as the pillows were soaked and saturated with the blood of the unfortunate victim.

      "Sacre bleu! that accursed woman again!" the growling voice of the gendarme, breaking the deep silence, made every one start nervously and instinctively. All glanced in the direction of the speaker.

      The man had pushed away the trailing bedclothes, and there, distinctly stamped upon the bare planks of the floor, was the impression of that same beautiful foot. Nor was this the only revelation made by the disarrangement of the sheets. Close beside the delicate footprint lay a hideous and frightful object an object from which the gendarme recoiled with an exclamation of disgust. It was a large knife, such as the butchers use in the abattoirs, the broad blade and coarse wooden handle smeared and clotted with gore.

      "Woman! woman!" excitedly cried the mayor. "No, no! No one shall ever make me believe that a woman could have committed such a deed as this! Is that a woman's weapon?" he continued, pointing with a shudder to the blood-stained knife. "Claude Duquesnay, I yielded to your arguments before, even against the conviction of my own mind. I tell you again, this was not the act of a woman. No, it is the work of an exterminating fiend, called from the very depths of hell, for our destruction."

      "Compose yourself, compose yourself, my friend," said the judge, observing the expression of astonishment depicted on the features of all the hearers at these wild words. "You can have no idea what strange things you are saying. I agree with you, it does seem almost impossible that this could have been the work of a woman."

      "There can be no question, Monsieur le Juge." The usually quiet voice of the police-agent, Guimand, was unchanged, and the numbed expression of his face did credit to the firmness of his nerves. "There can be no question," he went on; "this murder was committed by a man."

      "But what do you make of that footprint? What do you make of this hand upon Captain Dantan's sleeve?" said the chief of police, speaking rather sharply, and fixing his eye upon the agent with an expression in which a slight admixture of jealousy was plainly discernible.

      "Oh, I do not say that a woman was not present when the affair was done. There can be no doubt of that; but in my mind there can be still less doubt that the killing was done by a more powerful arm than that of a woman. See, Monsieur le Chef, look at the gash in this throat" — he pointed to the throat, and went on collectedly: "Observe the depth of the cut. It would require more strength than any woman is possessed of to inflict such a wound as this; and that upon the throat of the other victim is even deeper."

      "But how is it," broke in Duquesnay, "that the man has left no trace of his presence behind him? You have found the footprints of the woman — where are those of the man?"

      The sharp eyes of the chief seemed mutely to ask the same question. The agent was busy with reflection for a few moments, and then said, abstractedly:

      "It was undoubtedly a man. Yes, there can be no reason to disbelieve that. Look, monsieur," he continued, more decidedly, as if he had suddenly discovered the link necessary to complete his chain of thought, "this is how it all happened: The old woman had retired to bed, and had probably fallen to sleep; her daughter was here seated by the table, employed with her needlework, when she was suddenly disturbed in her occupation by the sound of some one entering the shop; she had her work upon the table here, and hastened to attend the customer. See, here is the garment upon which she was employed, with the needle still sticking in it. Come now to the other room, and you shall see what happened there."

      In silence they all followed the speaker, who led the way into the little shop. Passing around to the front of the counter, the agent went on with his narrative.

      "As I said, the poor young woman, hearing the noise. came out to attend her customer — and, messieurs, that noise must have been very slight, for it was evidently insufficient to awaken the mother. When she entered the shop two persons were standing here, just in front of the counter. One was a woman, the other a man; a tall man, about the size — well, about the size of Monsieur le Maire."

      Léon Dantan gave a start at the man's words, which was unobserved by all except Aristide, for the eyes of every one were fixed in breathless interest on the face of the speaker.

      "The remainder of the affair is very simple. The woman customer asked to look at some linen. It was on one of the shelves, and in order to reach it Mademoiselle Robert was forced to turn her back to her customers. While she stood in this position, with her hand raised for the desired article, the man suddenly dealt her a terrible blow on the back of her head which instantly brought her senseless to the ground. Do you need confirmation of my word, messieurs? If so, you have but to examine the back of this poor woman's head, and you will see that the scalp is broken and the skull fractured, and there upon the floor lies the roll of linen which the unfortunate dragged down with her in her fall. The blow was an awful one, and must have been inflicted with some wooden instrument — a large mallet, for instance — and that the man was tall, is proved by the fact that it was struck from above downward. Such a blow could only have been dealt by a very strong man, and one much taller than his victim."

      They all crowded around the agent, as he verified his words by exhibiting the wound which he had just described on the head of the dead woman.

      "You paint your picture vividly, Monsieur Guimand," exclaimed Claude de Duquesnay, gazing with evident admiration upon the detective.

      "I paint it truthfully, Monsieur le Juge," the man replied, with unmoved calmness. "Here is the wound as I said. And look at this face! Every feature indicates that this woman was struck down as if by lightning. Observe the open mouth, and the wild, staring look in the eye. The blow came so suddenly as to paralyze the cry for help, whose traces you can read but too plainly in this distorted countenance."

      He paused.

      "Go on, monsieur, go on!" cried the judge, unable to control his interest.

      "Well," continued Guimand, with a slight smile, "that is the end of it. The first victim lay insensible upon the floor, while the man hastened to penetrate the inner room. The sleep of the old woman was still undisturbed. It was but a step to the bedside, a single effort of the vigorous arm, and the other unfortunate was dead in a moment — dead! without even realizing a sensation of pain. You all saw how placid was her face and how natural the attitude in which she lay?"

      "But can you tell us, Monsieur l'Agent, how it is we see no marks of this man's feet, although it would seem impossible for any one with all this blood not to have left behind him some tracks, as did the woman?"

      "It is plain, Monsieur le Chef. There was no blood here when the murderer passed through this room. You look surprised; but it is the simplest of things. As I told you, having rendered the first victim insensible, he immediately entered the inner room, severed the throat of the old woman, and returning, did the like for her daughter."

      "But the knife — the knife?" interrupted Duquesnay.

      "The knife was in the inner room."

      "Exactly, monsieur. The woman remained here after her accomplice had left, and that is why you find the marks of her foot. It was she who left the knife in the inner room. It was she who locked the front door, and finally it was she who dropped the bloodstained key at the corner of the Rue Magenta."

      "But, grand Dieu! for what purpose could she have remained?"

      "Perhaps, Monsieur le Juge, to make those curious marks upon the foreheads of the dead. A woman did as much for Monsieur Marrois."

      "No, no! a thousand times no!" burst in the mayor. "I tell you it was not a woman; it was a fiend, a devil, a legion of fiends, for aught I know! Oh, Claude, my friend! I know I am speaking wildly, but have compassion upon me. I can endure this sight no longer. Henri, for God's sake give me your arm, and let us leave this awful place!"

      The depth of emotion which was rending the breast of the strong man was indelibly imprinted on his convulsed and quivering features. He tottered, and leaned for support upon his nephew's shoulder as he moved toward the door.

      Aristide followed his friend He was obliged to pass close to Charles Guimand.

      The detective leaned forward, and glaring in the direction of the retreating form of the mayor, said, in a low whisper:

      "That man holds the clew to this crime."

---

CHAPTER XIX.

      THE little town of Abois awoke the next morning a prey to the wildest excitement.

      The news of the crime had spread from one end of the place to the other, and this second mysterious murder, coming as it did before the memory of Marrois's death had passed from the minds of the populace, stirred into renewed flame the smoldering embers kindled in the breasts of every one by that horrible deed.

      There could not be the slightest doubt that the three victims had perished by the same hand. Indeed it did not appear that there was any desire to conceal this fact. The assassin rather seemed to glory in his work, and had as it were in those bloody crosses placed his signature with a feeling of pride to his handiwork, as if to say, "I did this deed."

      No other topic of conversation could be heard throughout the entire town. The affair was discussed in the cabarets, on the public streets, over the family board, and in the silence of the bedchamber.

      Abois seemed smothered beneath a pall, which cast a gloom over every thing and every one. At first the citizens spoke in low and bated whispers, like those who wait around the door of a silent house from which they know a funeral is soon to issue.

      Even the heavens seemed hung with crape, the bright sunlight giving place to a dark, lowering cloud which overhung the firmament.

      As the hours went by the murmurs, at first barely audible, gradually swelled louder and louder, until they grew into a roar.

      What was the meaning of all this? Where was the mayor and the city officials? — the chief of police and the judges? Had these officers been chosen for no other purpose than to sit idly by and allow the honest citizens of Abois to be slaughtered in their homes? What had the mayor been doing in all the time that had elapsed since the murder of Pierre Marrois? Had Abois a police? Where was Monsieur Duquesnay, the Juge d'Instruction? If these gentlemen had done their duty this second crime would never have taken place. Did they, perchance, intend to sit back enjoying themselves, until the mysterious murderer was satiated with the blood of his victim? The chief magistrate was a fool! the police — idiots, donkeys, blockheads, with eyes like a bat in the full glare of the midday sun, and no eyes at all at night. This would not have happened at Marseilles, at Paris, at Lyons — in short, anywhere save at Abois; and not even here had the authorities possessed the faintest glimmer of intelligence.

      A crowd gathered around in front of the Hotel de Ville, an excited crowd, a wild crowd, which was constantly dispersed by the gendarmes, and as constantly returned, talking at the top of their voices with that volubility and gesticulation which the French alone possess. They hung around the entrance, and gazed and gazed at the wide doorway as if they expected to see issue from its portals the assassin of Abois himself.

      Yes, it was no longer the murderer of Pierre Marrois, the slayer of Mère Robert; this criminal had lost his individuality, had become public property, and, as it were, a local celebrity. He was now, indeed, the "assassin of Abois," and strange as it may seem, there really was an expression of pride in the way that this name was pronounced by the citizens!

      United in their denunciation of the authorities, the populace was broadly divided on one point. This was the sex of the mysterious murderer. And bitter were the arguments and contentions which this difference of opinions gave rise to. Friends, the dearest and truest, became the deadliest of enemies, and the domestic peace of many a happy family was shipwrecked in this contention.

      The men declared in the most positive manner that the assassin was a woman, that no man could have done so cruel and cowardly a deed; and the women were equally as positive that the very brutality of the murder proved it to be the handiwork of a man.

      "Woman! woman indeed! Well, then, yes, a woman — a woman, of course — go along, then! I say a man, a man, a man — a mean, low, brutal assassin of a man!" cried Jean Aglaé Marie Séraphine Pichaud, leaning on the broom with which she had been busily employed in washing off the banquet, and hurling these words at Père Rideau, as he tramped along on his way to his morning's work.

      Aglaé was but the reflex of public sentiment, not only amongst her own class, but even in the highest ranks. Society was split from top to bottom, and as is usual in such cases, sought relief in a flow of words.

      In the meanwhile the mayor and authorities of the town were doing everything in their power to solve the insoluble mystery, and taking preparations to prevent a repetition of such horrible deeds. A large addition was made to the police force, and all night long the streets were patrolled by parties of gendarmes and soldiers, for the colonel of the hussars having proffered the assistance of his men, his offer had been eagerly accepted.

      Among those in the higher rank of society no one was more voluble in expressing an opinion than Madame la Baronnne d'Aubrac.

      The effect of the second murder was for the time, at least, to put an end to all amusement. No one had the heart to indulge in gayety in the face of this mysterious and awful visitation. Who could think of balls, receptions, when each one felt that he himself might be the next victim? The result was that Angelique's salon was almost deserted. Moreover, Henriette had been detained at home by the indisposition of her uncle; and Captain, Dantan also, for some reason, had failed to make his appearance. The baroness was angry — angry with herself, angry with everybody. Angry with herself that she should have come to that miserable little Abois, angry with her friends that they should hide themselves away like so many rats at the first sound of alarm. Oh! it was a horrible place! She was disgusted, unnerved; she would go back to Paris the next day. Why, already she had the migraine! If this went on she would be as pale as a ghost; as pale as Mademoiselle Zortichoff; and there was Henriette — Henriette had deserted her.

      It was no use for Aristide to say anything about the indisposition of the uncle; Madame d'Aubrac absolutely refused to accept this as an excuse for the absence of the niece. She succeeded, with very little difficulty, in working herself up to a high pitch of anger, and as she was not accustomed to control her feelings, the vials of her wrath were freely poured down upon Vis's devoted head. He meekly faced the storm, and sought to allay the tempest by suggesting "that there was really nothing to keep madame at Abois, and if she wished he could arrange for her return to Paris as soon as she desired." But instead of quelling the storm, he only succeeded in turning it in another direction.

      "What did he think? Could he suppose that she, Angelique, would be so heartless as to leave her friend when she was surrounded by so much danger and trouble? Was that like her? Was that the opinion he had formed of her character after all the years of their acquaintance? Desert her friend thus basely? No, never! Henriette might forget, but she, Angelique d'Aubrac, she would never desert a friend in affliction! No; she would remain in Abois; she would console Henriette."

      Aristide muttered an expression of admiration at this heroism, of which the lady took but little notice, continuing even in a more grandiloquent tone:

      "It was her duty, only her duty; and when had a D'Aubrac ever failed in his duty? It was fixed. She would remain at Abois; she would force that idiotic Monsieur Duquesnay to discover this annoying murderer. It was necessary to Henriette's peace of mind, to the comfort and happiness of her friend, that this wretch, this dreadful wretch, should be discovered; and discovered he should be!"

      Aristide's smile at this extravagance only transferred the storm again to himself.

      "Did he mean to sit idly by and do nothing? She had always considered him a man of some intelligence. Had he suddenly lost what little intellect he once possessed? Why did he not put an end to all his trouble — this trouble which was torturing her friend and emptying her salon of all its habitués? Oh, he need not lift his eyebrows or shrug his shoulders in that stupid manner! If he was half as wise as he looked, he would find that misérable, and have him guillotined, then all would be at peace again, and she and Henriette enjoy themselves as they had before the town had become insane, and no longer be obliged to go to bed every night, tormented by the thought that when they awoke in the morning they would find themselves with their throats cut from ear to ear. And now, my dear fellow," continued the lady, as with a gesture of royal dismissal she extended her little white hand to be kissed, "go and find me this wretched assassin as soon as possible."

      Aristide could not help smiling to himself, as he made his adieux. at the nonchalance with which his sovereign spoke of the capture of this unknown criminal, who had so far successfully baffled the efforts of the police, and whose capture Madame d'Aubrac seemed to regard as the simplest of things.

      "Alas!" thought the young man, "how little had this intellect for which she gave him credit been able to accomplish toward the solution of the mystery? He had thought himself very wise indeed, and had aired his opinions in a most lofty manner. He could remember how much he had felt his imaginary superiority when Léon Dantan and Jean, the brigadier of gendarmes, had hung in mute admiration on his words as he sketched the manner of Marrois's death. How much had he imagined himself to have seen where others all appeared blind, and what had his foresightedness and wisdom led him to? Again, what had his intellect done to solve this puzzle, whose solution he had voluntarily taken upon himself? His first act had been to grievously wound the tender feeling of an innocent young girl, whose very appearance should have preserved her from the suspicion of any but a diseased mind. And on what grounds had he inflicted this cruel stab? — a stab made doubly painful by the tie of friendship and gratitude which bound Valiska to the dead man."

      He felt an absolute contempt for himself as he thought how easily he had allowed the fancied resemblance between Mademoiselle Zortichoff's glove and that of the murderess to awaken within him the foul idea of guilt! And such guilt! He could almost laugh at his baseless suspicions were it not for the bitter self-contempt with which he now regarded himself. It must be, as Henri had often told him, that his brain was growing weak; perhaps he had overtaxed it with his philosophical and metaphysical studies. Surely the exquisite perfection of those beautiful and pale features, the placid calmness of the lovely eyes, should have been enough to silence the evil whispers in any but a crazed and morbid mind.

      "Poor girl, poor girl! with all her family trouble, striving to bear up so nobly against affliction, and he — fool, idiot, dunce! — to wantonly strike a blow at so weak and helpless a creature!"

      He thought of that conversation with Valiska wherein he had sought to entrap the frail girl into some confession of guilt some chance word or expression which he might seize upon as proof conclusive and he smiled to himself, but certainly not with self-appreciation, thinking how he had rejected the alibi which she had laughingly offered to prove. And now, as if to mock at his pretended wisdom, chance had made him a witness to Mademoiselle Zortichoff's innocence.

      Was it chance, or fate, or Heaven, or what, that had led him and Captain Dantan to the cottage at the very time that the murder of Mère Robert and her daughter was being accomplished? It was certainly strange, but who, then, was this mysterious woman who had left that bloody imprint on his friend's sleeve? Who, then, was this woman, that he had dared to think was Valiska, on no better evidence than the marvelous beauty of her hand? It was not poor Stéphanie Marrois. He had proved a weak champion in her cause; but Providence had been kinder, and on this occasion at least had preserved the innocent. The police surveillance over Madame Marrois had been of the strictest, and the agent, charged with the duty of watching her, declared positively that she had never left her abode upon the night of the second murder. Thus Stéphanie was free from all taint of guilt, but through no act of his, through no exercise of that skill and astuteness in the detection of crime of which he had imagined himself the possessor.

      Where was this new Vidocq, whose ability he had so lauded? Bah! and now, after all his failures, now when he at length fully realized what a stupid ignoramus he was, here comes Angelique and asks him in the coolest manner possible to find this infernal assassin, very much as if the affair was as easy of accomplishment as to pick up a stray dog!

      His reveries came to an end with a start as he chanced to look up and found himself near Mademoiselle Zortichoff's cottage.

      Old Orloff was taking advantage of the warm, balmy evening, to roll the wheeled chair of the invalid up and down the shady sidewalk, protected from the full glare of the sun by a row of tall trees, whose leaves already began to show symptoms of the coming Autumn. In the doorway a lady and gentleman were standing, so absorbed in conversation as to be entirely unaware of his approach.

      Valiska was the first to recognize his presence. With a pleasant little smile and a graceful inclination of her charming head, she acknowledged his salute, murmured a last word to her companion and entered the garden; the gentleman turned and advanced to meet Aristide — it was Léon Dantan.

---

CHAPTER XX.

      VIS felt a thrill of the deepest commiseration and pity as he beheld the fearful change which a few short days had made in the appearance of the mayor of Abois. He had known that Léon Dantan, since the night of Mère Robert's murder, had been prostrated on a bed of sickness. This he had learned, not only through Angelique's melancholy lamentations over Henriette's desertion, but also from Henri and his friends; words had led him to expect some traces of the fearful mental strain through which Monsieur Dantan had just passed, but nothing at all like the reality.

      The man who came to meet him was a person apparently much older than the Léon Dantan of a few short weeks ago — the Léon Dantan whom he remembered chatting so gayly with Mademoiselle Zortichoff in the little music-room of her charming home. His gray hair was now almost white, and deep lines furrowed his features. Care and sorrow had usurped the place of that quiet merriment which formerly lurked in his handsome brown eyes. His lips quivered nervously, and the mouth, drawn down at the corners, bore witness that the hand of suffering had laid its weight upon his countenance. In addition, Aristide noticed a singularity in the glance of his friend's eye, a strange and curious expression, unmistakably of fear. The look of one haunted by some imminent danger, which he expects, yet dreads to meet.

      Vis could not tell how it was, but as he gazed on his friend's face the remembrance of those whispered words of the police agent suddenly returned with full force to his recollection. Did Léon Dantan really possess the clew?

      The mayor's greeting was cordial and friendly. Assuming that the young man was returning to the Hermitage, he linked his arm in his and proposed to accompany him homeward, saying that he had many things of which he would like Monsieur Vis's opinion. "For you know," he said, with a sad smile, "I have learned to place a high value on your judgment."

      "You do me much more than justice," replied Aristide. "I assure you that when I met you I had just come to the conclusion that I was the grandest dunce in Abois, if not in France. Good-evening, Monsieur Sergius; you have a pleasant afternoon for your exercise."

      The soft evening air had brought a faint tinge of color to the sick man's cheek, but the large dark eyes were as mournful as ever; mournful with that sad expression which seems stamped upon those whom fate has doomed to an untimely death.

      The invalid replied to Vis's salutation with a few feeble words of thanks, of whose import he seemed scarcely conscious.

      In marked contrast to the soft low voice was the deep, growling response of old Orloff, as he pushed the chair away in the direction of the garden gate.

      The two gentlemen walked on for some time without speaking a word. Observing that the mayor seemed indisposed to break the silence, Aristide assumed the initiative himself, saying "that he was sorry to see Monsieur Dantan had not recovered from the shock of Madame Robert's murder."

      The expression of pain deepened on Léon's face, and the furtive look returned once more to his eye.

      "Alas! monsieur," he replied, in a grave, sad voice, "what you say is but too true. I have received a blow from which I will never recover. Day and night I am haunted by the ghastly forms of those unfortunates, their pallid foreheads hideous with that frightful cross of blood; they crowd around me in my dreams, in my waking thoughts, pointing their fingers at me, and staring with their wide-open glassy eyes, mute and reproachful."

      He paused, overcome with emotion, and wiped his damp, clammy brow.

      "My dear friend," cried Aristide, deeply moved by this overpowering grief, "you should not give way to such wild and fantastic ideas."

      "I know it, I know it. But what am I to do? I tell you but the simple truth. There is not one moment in which I am free from these ghostly visitors."

      "Pshaw! this is nothing but the result of a morbid and over-excited condition of the nerves. The cure is to be found in active employment for the mind; occupation and amusement is what you need. Keep your mind busy, and I will bet my life that your tormenting phantoms will disappear as the mist before the rising sun."

      "Ah, monsieur, you can treat this with levity."

      "But, surely, you would not have me believe," interrupted Vis, "that a man with your intelligence can believe in spiritual visitations? Now, in my experience, all the spirits and apparitions with which I have been tormented have been simply the result of an ill-cooked meal, or some indiscretion in the way of champagne or other exciting stimulants. I assure you there are more ghosts in a glass of punch taken just before going to bed than in all the immensity of space."

      "Monsieur," exclaimed Dantan, drawing himself up with an air of offended dignity, and speaking with constrained stiffness, "I expected from you, if not sympathy, at least assistance and advice. I certainly never looked for ridicule."

      "Pardon me if I have offended you," answered Aristide; "but the strange way in which you treat this affair is to me inexplicable."

      "Inexplicable! Not at all!" cried the other, clutching the arm of his companion with a grasp which was almost painful in its force. "Not at all!" he continued, his eyes fixed intently upon his friend's face, as if trying to read his innermost thoughts. "There are things happening around us every day to which we are strangers — things which we call supernatural, simply from our inability to fathom the causes which have given birth to these mysteries."

      "I wonder," said Aristide to himself, as he listened to these wild words — "I wonder if Monsieur le Maire is really taking leave of his senses?"

      Léon did not appear to notice the effect which his wild words produced upon Vis, but went on speaking in a gloomy, abstracted manner:

      "Men accept without hesitation, on the testimony of fellow-creatures as frail as themselves, the doctrine of the transmission of hereditary diseases, sometimes passing over three or four generations to fall upon some helpless victim chosen as a sacrifice for the weakness of his ancestors. I say to you, monsieur, this is a belief which we do not doubt. Why, then, should we dispute the Divine warning that 'the sins of the father are visited upon the children unto the third and fourth generation'? Is not the testimony of the Almighty stronger than the evidence of mere mortal beings?"

      "I cannot be mistaken in supposing that you are alluding to those unfortunate murders. Surely, Monsieur Dantan, you would not have me understand that you thought there was anything supernatural about them?"

      "My God, my God!" cried the mayor, with a wild ring of agony in his voice, "if I could but answer that question to my own satisfaction, perhaps I should once more enjoy a moment of peace and rest — rest from this hideous uncertainty, this mental torture which is driving me crazy!"

      The piteous tone awoke in Vis a feeling of the deepest commiseration.

      "Believe me," he said, "I would do all in my power to assist you, but I am in the dark, and know not in what manner I can be of service. You once hinted to me, monsieur — nay, I may say you did more than hint — that you were the possessor of a secret that might explain these crimes; perhaps the revelation of that secret might aid me to clear away the dark cloud of obscurity which conceals the assassin of your friends."

      "No, no!" replied the mayor, in a hollow voice; "it is impossible. I am bound by the most solemn of oaths to preserve that secret inviolate, and were I to reveal it to you it would be of no avail — of no assistance. Man, man, I have spent night after night, thinking and thinking, until my brain grew dazed and my forehead ached, always with the same result — nothing, absolutely nothing!"

      "Monsieur, I say to you again you are not doing right to give way to these fits of depression; the strongest mind could not bear up against it. If you are unwilling to make me your confidant, why not seek the assistance of your nephew? Henri is not a man to be alarmed by 'phantoms.'"

      "Again impossible. Shall I crowd that poor boy's life with the awful shadow which now enshrouds me in its black and gloomy folds?"

      "Are you aware, Monsieur le Maire, that your manner has already betrayed your secret to others?"

      "Ah, what do you say?" cried Dantan, with a violent start.

      "I say that, as you left the shop of Madame Robert, the police-agent, Guimand, whispered in my ear: 'That man holds a clew to the murder.'"

      "Mon Dieu!"

      "It is a fact; and, to be frank with you, I will say that I watched the agent closely, and I am satisfied that the man believes you to be in some way connected with these crimes."

      "Oh, this is horrible, horrible! But surely, monsieur, you never could believe me guilty, even as an accomplice, in the murder of my friends? Say to me that you did not suspect me of such complicity!"

      The agitation of Dantan would have awakened pity in a harder man than the tenderhearted Vis, and he hastened to assure his friend of his utter disbelief in the implied insinuation of the police-agent. The expression of gratitude with which his words were received showed how sweet was even this poor consolation to the broken spirit of the unfortunate man.

      "I thank you, my friend, I thank you. You do me but justice. If, by giving my last drop of blood, I could have warded off this awful doom from my friends, I would willingly — oh, so willingly! — have paid the price. But you remember, perhaps, what I said to Claude Duquesnay when the disfigured body of poor Pauline Robert lay there before me. You might have thought then that I was overcome by grief, but I tell you now — now when I am cool and calm, and I speak sincerely, and from the bottom of my soul — I do believe that these murders were the work of no earthly being. No, I understand that look, and I acknowledge the wildness — nay, almost the insanity of my words; but, nevertheless, I still think that an avenging Nemesis has spread her wings over our unfortunate town."

      "Come, come; I must listen to no more of this. It seems to me that your Nemesis has left behind her, upon both occasions, proofs which should banish from your mind all doubt as to the materiality of this mysterious assassin. Surely you have forgotten that glove which we found; and as for the reality of the being who left the imprint of that bloody hand on Henri's sleeve, I am sure my friend can bear conclusive evidence, as the woman almost ran into his arms."

      "You are a much younger man than I, Monsieur Vis, but I confess to you that I cannot understand how you can accept the awful idea that a woman could have committed such atrocious deeds."

      "Ma foi!" cried Aristide, shrugging his shoulders. "Experience has taught me the foolishness of any person trying to place a limit to what women will do. No, monsieur, you need not look offended; I am not speaking lightly. To be frank with you, I can see nothing in either murder at all unnatural. I believe that my theory of the manner in which Marrois was assassinated, and the picture which Agent Guimand drew of the murder of Madame Robert and her daughter, were both strictly correct. I can see nothing mysterious, unless it be the cause which led to those crimes — undoubtedly both committed by the same individual. When you find that cause you should not have much difficulty in placing your hand on the murderer. At first it seemed clear that motives of revenge might have instigated some injured woman to take this awful method of wreaking her vengeance upon the man who had foully betrayed her. You may remember that this idea was accepted by Monsieur Duquesnay as a solution to the affair. But while such a motive as revenge would explain Monsieur Marrois's murder, it is scarcely possible that a similar cause could have induced the killing of that poor woman and her daughter. But there! I can see from the expression of your face that all my arguments are unavailing."

      "I acknowledge it. We view this through different lights. To you, all is open and clear; to me, all dark, strange and inexplicable. I can no more make you credit the supernatural character of those crimes than you can make me believe them to be of mere earthly origin. But see, we are at your door. Time alone can solve this problem." He grasped Aristide's hand and shook it. "If I am right." he said, in a deep, impressive voice, "we are not done with this avenging visitation. Another victim will fall; another victim will bear upon his forehead that fatal sign. And that victim will be — myself!"

      He dropped his hand, turned, and was gone before the astonished young man could recover from the stunning effect produced by these last words.

---

CHAPTER XXI.

      DAYS passed, and no progress appeared to be made in the search for the "assassin of Abois." He or she seemed to have disappeared as completely as if, indeed, as the mayor said, "The criminal had been a visitor from another world."

      As often as Aristide thought over that last conversation with Léon, the more mysterious appeared the conduct and words of that gentleman. That Dantan really believed in the truth of what he said, he would not for a moment doubt; but this only made it the more strange.

      Here in the nineteenth century to find a man, as intelligent as his friend on all other subjects, capable of believing in supernatural agents, sent on earth as the executioners of Divine wrath, seemed almost incredible.

      Busy with such thoughts as these, Vis endured with stoical meekness the indignant denunciations poured out upon him by Angelique for his laziness and stupidity. Time and again was he abused for not obeying his sovereign's reiterated command to find the unfindable.

      It was true that some balm had come to assuage the wounded feelings of the baroness. Henriette, released from attendance upon her uncle, had hastened to reunite the bonds of friendship as tightly as before, and many of the young frequenters of her salon, recovering from their fright, again filled her rooms with jest and laughter.

      This renewal of festivity and gayety, of pleasant adulation, and still more pleasant flirtation, did not serve, however, to banish from Angelique's charming little head the idea of unearthing this miserable wretch who went about cutting poor women's throats. There was a strong spice of obstinacy in that same little head, notwithstanding the meek and innocent expression which the soft brown eyes could at will assume; and this obstinacy was freely visited upon the unresisting philosopher.

      His skin seemed as impervious to the sharp darts launched at him by his liege lady as the hide of the rhinoceros; but he was not above descending to the base subterfuge of keeping away from the salon of the baroness until he felt assured that he would not have to face alone the anticipated denunciation which he knew but too well awaited him.

      It resulted from this that Aristide gradually fell into the habit of going every evening to smoke his cigar, and as he said, "to think," in the Cemetery of St. Jean, staying there until darkness assured him that he would find Madame d'Aubrac absorbed in some delicious flirtation, which would prove for that night, at least, his deliverance.

      The place was a pleasant one to lounge in, and it was still more pleasant to watch the bright faces of the young people as they sauntered along the walks and alleys of this favorite promenade of Abois, chatting and laughing as if, at least for them, death and its surroundings had no horror.

      Entering the cemetery one evening at an earlier hour than usual, he found it almost entirely deserted, except where, here and there, some dark-robed figure was praying by the grave of its dead.

      Wandering aimlessly about, he came suddenly upon a woman kneeling by the side of a marble shaft; she was busily employed in arranging around the green mound some poor flowers, and was so absorbed in her occupation as to be unaware of Vis's approach. He, however, immediately recognized the attenuated figure and the sad, careworn face of Stéphanie Marrois.

      She was dressed in the same plain gray frock which she had worn when he saw her for the first time in Duquesnay's office. Her cheeks seemed thinner and more sunken, and the sallow hue of her complexion had deepened, making the dark eyes seem larger and more melancholy in their expression.

      The magnificent marble shaft bore upon its entablature the name of Pierre François Marrois.

      Vis stood for some moments in silence, watching the poor woman, thinking to himself how strange it was that she should have been accused of the murder of the very man whose grave she was decorating.

      Stéphanie looked up as he spoke her name, and a slight flush stole into the wan cheeks, as if she felt embarrassed in being thus detected in her work of charity.

      "Excuse me, monsieur," she said, in a half-apologetic tone. "I know he was not a good man, and used me very cruelly, but after all, monsieur, he was my husband. I cannot forget that. And you see he is now dead, and it is wrong to nourish bitter remembrances of the dead. No one seems to remember him here, although they tell me he was a rich man, with many friends. I come here every evening, but no one seems to think of placing a flower upon his grave. Well, monsieur, something whispered to me that this was my duty. I know these are poor flowers to be here alongside of this fine marble tomb, but they were the best I was able to purchase."

      Aristide was so much impressed with the simple earnestness of the speaker, that he found it almost impossible to express his admiration for the generosity and forgiveness displayed by this poor soul.

      There was, however, a ring of true sincerity in what he did say that brought a look of pleasure to Stéphanie's face.

      Her task had been almost completed when Aristide had first discovered her, and she now arose and prepared to take her departure, evidently hastened by the throng of young people who came crowding in through the gates of the cemetery.

      "If you will allow me, Madame Marrois," said Vis, lifting his hat as politely as if Stéphanie had been the loftiest lady in the land, "I will walk a little distance with you. I should like to tell you how sorry I was that I was only able to render you such slight assistance when I would willingly have done so much, had it been in my power."

      The polite and sympathetic manner of the young man was evidently very sweet to the lonesome and friendless woman.

      She willingly accepted his offered escort, and together they passed out of the graveyard, walking leisurely along the shady streets in the direction of Stéphanie's abode.

      To Aristide's inquiry as to her future plans, she answered openly, and without hesitation. She would leave Abois, she said, as soon as possible — that is, as soon as her lawyer permitted her.

      "Thank God, monsieur," she continued, "no one now believes that I had any share in my poor husband's death. But they tell me I will be obliged to remain until the court has decided on the claim which I have made to my husband's estate."

      "You will be a rich woman, I believe, Madame Marrois, and I am glad that such good fortune has come to so worthy a person."

      "Ah, monsieur," answered Stéphanie, sadly, "of what value will all this money be to me? I am broken in spirit and health. What could I do with wealth, I who have but a few years left to me? No, no, monsieur! I have made up my mind. This money will never leave Abois. It was earned here, and here it will remain. I have determined to devote the whole of it to building an asylum for the poor children of the town, and I trust that the prayers of the little ones will induce the bon Dieu to deal gently with the sins of my poor husband."

      "You are a good woman, Madame Marrois!" cried Vis, energetically, "and I feel sure you will be well rewarded for your noble generosity; but, pardon me, you should take some thought for yourself; a portion at least of this money might be of use to you in the future. Alas! you know we all grow old."

      "Ah, monsieur, that will never happen to me. But as to my future, I have my little shop in Lyons, and all I now desire is the privilege of retiring to its obscurity. I could never live in Abois, and still less could I ever consent to use this money for myself. No, no! I am still able, thank God, to support myself in a very humble way, monsieur, it is true; but then, you see, I desire no other."

      The distance from the Cemetery St. Jean to the house in which Stéphanie Marrois had taken up her residence was but short. Vis and his companion had almost reached the Rue d'Orville, when a man turned the corner of the street, and came running toward them at great speed.

      The runner was evidently laboring under great excitement. Deadly fear was written all over his countenance — in his pallid cheeks, his staring eyes, and damp and clammy forehead.

      "Oh, monsieur, for God's sake haste, haste!" he cried, as he drew near Aristide, his words made almost unintelligible by his panting and oppressed breathing. "Oh, for God's sake haste! Something awful has happened at No. 25."

      "Which No. 25?" cried Vis, catching the speaker by the arm, as he was about to dash away.

      "Oh, No. 25 Rue — Rue d'Orville!"

      "Great Heaven!" exclaimed Stéphanie, "that is the house in which I live. Oh, come, monsieur; let us hurry."

      Impressed with a fear almost equal to that of his companion, Aristide gave his arm to Madame Marrois, and thus assisting and supporting her, they rapidly ran toward the Rue d'Orville.

      As they turned into that street, at every step the signs of alarm increased. Men, women, and children, like themselves, were running at the top of their speed in the same direction. No one seemed to know exactly what was the matter, but every one appeared to be impressed with the most gloomy forebodings.

      It was but a square to No. 25, yet before they reached the house quite a considerable crowd had collected in front of the entrance. By a vigorous use of his elbows, the young man succeeded in making a pathway for himself and Stéphanie through the densely-packed throng. Inch by inch he advanced toward the doorway, under a fire of abuse from those angry and indignant men and women whose feet had felt the full weight of his body, or whose sides the sharpness of his elbows. The vestibule was reached at last.

      It was tightly packed with spectators, whose eyes were all centred upon the lodge of the portress, which opened by a small door upon this vestibule. A few more energetic efforts obtained for Aristide admission to the room.

      It presented a strange sight. One would have said that a whirlwind had swept through the place, judging from the wild disorder which prevailed in the apartment.

      The bed had been shoved into one corner, and upon this was heaped up in heterogeneous confusion tables and chairs, boxes, bags and bundles — nay, even the pitcher and basin, coal-scuttle and tongs; in fact, all the furniture, with the exception of one large armchair, in which reclined the limp form of Aglaé Pichaud, jumbled up in such a heap as to resemble more nearly a bundle of dirty brown calico than any human being.

      The portress was surrounded by a dozen good samaritans, each of whom was ministering to her after their own peculiar plan.

      These plans were mostly taking the form of internal doses of cognac and vigorous slapping administered to the hands of the sufferer.

      The women were all chattering at once, and at the very top of their shrill, dissonant voices; and, to add to the uproar, a large green parrot, whose cage was suspended from the low ceiling, was shrieking out what sounded like a volley of execrations.

      Vis could obtain no reply to his reiterated questions except the assurance that Madame Pichaud was alive. No one seemed to know what had caused the alarm, and all waited with the utmost impatience until returning consciousness would enable Aglaé to unvail the mystery. This impatience was not soon to be gratified. Cognac was a stimulant which constant use had almost robbed of its power. Glass after glass was poured down the capacious throat of the portress without any apparent effect, and the samaritans were almost reduced to despair, when returning life began to make itself visible.

      Taking at first the form of a gentle shiver, the bunchy mass of clothes was soon wriggling about in a manner that showed there was no lack of vitality in the sufferer.

      "Ah, the poor dear!" said one of the women, who might have sat as a duplicate for Aglaé herself, and whom Aristide mentally set down to be Celeste, the gossip. "Ah, the poor dear, now she is coming round. There, ma chère, take a little more of the cognac. Ah, that makes the color come to her cheek; she will be on her feet in a minute."

      The words of the speaker were quickly realized. The limp form straightened up, the round eyes opened, and the portress of No. 25 gazed around the room with a wild and terrified stare.

      "There you are, my Aglaé!" cried Celeste, patting her friend on the shoulder. "And now, nom de nom, tell us what is the meaning of all this? We hear cries — Mon Dieu! I should say shrieks — we come in here and — we find you, my poor dear, on the floor, stiff as a poker. Tell us, my Aglaé; tell us what it is."

      The object of all this solicitation again glanced wildly around the room, closed her eyelids, breathed heavily, and then reopening them, exclaimed, in a low, quavering voice, "Where is he?"

      "Ah, mon Dieu, who?" ejaculated Celeste, overawed by the solemn tone of the questioner.

      "He! I say he!" cried Aglaé, her voice growing louder and shriller as by degrees her usual animation returned. "He — the villain, the bloodthirsty murderer, the assassin! Ah, the wretch! Do you hear me then — the assassin! I say, the assassin — the assassin — the assassin!"

      "Grace à Dieu, Aglaé, what are you saying?" a dozen women exclaimed at once.

      "The truth; oh, yes, nothing but the truth. I saw him — the monster, the murderer of that poor Madame Robert — the assassin of Monsieur Marrois!"

      A groan broke from the crowd as Madame Pichaud paused to take in the full effect of her words.

      "Ah, mon Dieu! Did he attack thee, Aglaé?" inquired the sympathetic Celeste. "Where didst thou see him, and what was he like?"

      "Oh, the most horrible — tall, so tall — with a face like a devil; a frightful face. A face, Mon Dieu, to make one shiver in one's sabots."

      With the expression of curiosity sharpened upon their faces by these wild ravings of the portress, the throng pressed closer around, overwhelming her with reiterated entreaties to speak. This Madame Pichaud was only too willing to do, and accordingly had just opened her mouth to gratify her hearers, when her story was abruptly cut short by the entrance of Jean, the brigadier of gendarmes, accompanied by one of his men.

      "What is the meaning of this disturbance, Mère Pichaud?" demanded the official, in a deep, stern voice. "Have you taken leave of your senses?"

      "But no, Monsieur le Brigadier! It is all true — true as le bon Dieu! I have seen the murderer of Monsieur Marrois. I have seen the assassin of ——"

      "Nonsense!" replied the brigadier. "You have been taking too much cognac, and waked up with your brain fuddled."

      "Me! indeed, monsieur. When do I take cognac, unless it be for a pain in my side? Ask Celeste, ask every one. I thank God my reputation is known here in Abois."

      "Yes, for a devil of a chatterbox. But now tell me, in as few words as possible, what you mean by all this noise, which has nearly alarmed the whole town?"

      "Ah, God forgive you, Monsieur Brigadier, for calling an honest, industrious woman a chatterbox."

      "Well there, then, speak."

      The accusation of the gendarme seemed to put a damper upon the usually so voluble Aglaé, and there was absolutely almost a hesitation in her manner, as she began the eagerly looked for explanation.

      "Well, Monsieur Jean, I had gone around the corner to Mère Tripot's, the grocer. What had I gone for? Why, for two sous of cabbage. I am gone but a few seconds, when, on my return, I stop at the door to tell Celeste the news about Monsieur le Maire's sickness. My gossip and I had been speaking but a moment, when that gamin of a nephew calls Celeste away. Eh, is it not true, m'aime? I cannot tell you, monsieur, how it was, but something within me made me pause in the vestibule. The door of my lodge was half open; when I left it only a few seconds before it had been empty, empty as that, monsieur," said the speaker, extending both hands with the palms up. "Grace à Dieu! as I peeped through the crack, what do I see — a man prowling around my room! A tall man, monsieur; as tall as a church steeple; with a white face and great flashing eyes. I will not say, monsieur, I did not tremble. Fear is unknown to the soul of Aglaé Pichaud — but I will not say I did not tremble. Was it a knife I saw in his hand? I tell you no. I know not if it was a knife, but I swear to you it shone and glittered like steel. I stood there, I could not move, but the villain had heard my steps. I saw him creep along, creep along till, like a snake, he glided into my closet and closed the door behind him. In that moment courage returned to my breast; I felt strong, Monsieur le Brigadier, strong. I sprang forward, one, two; I am at the door of the closet, the key is in the lock, I turn it. Ha, ha! the assassin hears me, and thunders out his curses at me. I heed him not. I drag my bed before the door, I pile my chairs, my tables — what do I know? — everything I can lay my hands on. I heap them up in front of the door; and then, monsieur, and then my strength deserts me; my courage goes. I remember that I am a woman, and I shriek, and then I remember no more."

      Having reached this dramatic conclusion, Aglaé, with both hands placed upon her hips, stood, modestly silent, to receive the well-merited words of approbation poured upon her by her friends and neighbors.

      "I don't believe a word of the whole story!" cried the brigadier, breaking ruthlessly in upon the shower of congratulations.

      "Ah, monsieur, how can you say that! Is he not there!" exclaimed Madame Pichaud, pointing with a tragic gesture to the small door, in front of which was the heaped-up pile of furniture.

      "Then, if he is there," replied the official, "we will have him out at once. Here, Antoine, give me your assistance."

      These prompt words produced an instant effect. A number of men eagerly proffered their services, and piece by piece the removal of the furniture was effected.

      "Stand back!" cried Jean, as he turned the key in the lock, and then opened the door.

      His command was obeyed with the utmost promptness, and all eyes were strained for a glimpse of the dreaded assassin.

      At first nothing was visible within the closet but various articles of female wearing apparel. Old shawls, dilapidated boxes, and worn-out sabots — in short, a veritable curiosity-shop of worthless odds and ends.

      But suddenly a thrill of horror runs through the breasts of the spectators, the sound of a slight scuffle is audible, and the next moment the powerful arm of the brigadier drags from his place of concealment the crouching figure of a man.

      All stare in mute silence, and then the loud shout of laughter with which the gendarmes call out the name of Baptiste Ducorneau is re-echoed in the peals of laughter that bursts from the cry. It was in very truth Baptiste Ducorneau — Baptiste, cowering and helpless, trembling in the strong grasp of Monsieur Jean, his broad, lumpish features twisted into a grotesque expression, in which sheepish bashfulness, astonishment and terror were ludicrously blended.

      The merriment was loud and prolonged. That the awful murderer, as tall as a church steeple, with his flashing eyes and pallid face, should have shrunken into so tamed and insignificant a creature as Baptiste, was too amusing.

      Men and women laughed and laughed until the tears rolled down their cheeks, their amusement further stimulated by the behavior of Madame Pichaud, who, throwing herself upon her miserable lover, in the excess of her indignation at the public ridicule thus cast upon her, fairly belabored him with all the strength of her sturdy arm and her no less powerful tongue.

      "Parturiunt montes, nascetur ridiculus mus."

      Aristide could not repress the quotation, nor the smile of amusement which accompanied it.

      Bidding Stéphanie Marrois adieu, he slipped out of the joyous crowd, the noise of whose merriment pursued. him for squares.

      "Ah, bon soir, Monsieur Vis," said the gay voice of the baroness, as Aristide made his way through the brilliantly-lighted rooms to pay his devoirs to his liege lady. "You are just in time. We have decided on a plan to rid ourselves of this mysterious assassin. We are determined to bury him under a heap of roses. Here is Colonel Courcelles, who has promised us a review of his Hussars, and Henriette has pledged her uncle to a ball. What do you say to that?"

      "If you will permit me, madame," replied Aristide, with the utmost gravity, "I will throw the first rosebud at the ogre."

      And without further prelude the young man proceeded to relate the amusing episode in the loves of Aglaé and Baptiste, to which he had just been a witness. His narrative was received with the utmost applause by the gay and lighthearted company, and the merriment which rang through the salon was as loud as that which had greeted the unfortunate Ducorneau as he emerged from the closet.

(To be continued.)

      DURING the two ensuing days it almost appeared as if the gay threat of the baroness was, in fact, to be realized. The grim spectre, who for so many weeks had held in his icy clutch the terrified inhabitants of Abois, seemed about to disappear under the mountain of rose-leaves which dozens of pretty white hands were ready to hurl at the sanguinary phantom, which threatened an untimely end to all their amusements.

      It was as if the vail of crape which had shrouded the town was suddenly lifted away, and the bright, warm sunlight of heaven once more allowed to pour down its revivifying rays — as if the dull monotony of a funeral-march had suddenly swelled into the exciting and enthusiastic clang of martial music.

      With that fickleness and variability which is so essentially a component part of the French character, the citizens eagerly seized upon the new topic of thought and conversation afforded them by the promised review of the Hussars.

      The town was a prey to the fever of military excitement. Nothing else was heard save the grandeur of the French army and the courage of its soldiers, together with many personal recollections of acts of heroism performed during the war by the Volunteers and Franc-Tireurs of Abois — recollections which had grown dim and indistinct, moldering away in the recesses of the brain, and now dragged forth for the delectation of many a gaping crowd of eager listeners, in the cabarets and cafés, on the streets, and, in fact, in all places of public gatherings; many who could boast the possession of indelible records of the sanguinary struggle, in the shape of scars and wounds inflicted by the needle-gun, the bayonet, or the sabre, sprung at once into objects of public admiration — beings to be stared at by the admiring gamins, as very demigods and heroes.

      The occasion of the review was to be a general holiday, a universal fête, this was settled at once. The authorities of the town willingly falling in with this sudden change in the current of popular thought, which bid fair to lead the public mind into a more pleasant channel than that in which it had lately flowed, used their influence with the shopkeepers to close their places of business, that all might enjoy the promised military display.

      A large space of level and open meadow land lay on the outskirts of Abois, slanting down to the little brook which formed the southern boundary of the town. This place had been selected for the review, and at an early hour on the morning of the appointed day was a scene of bustle and preparation. Booths were erected for the sale of refreshments of various kinds, and these little huts were made gay with bright-colored stuffs and evergreens.

      Long before the time at which the manœuvres were to commence crowds of the townfolks in their holiday attire had already assembled in the meadows, eager to obtain commanding positions from which they might see the martial show. Scattered in groups and knots, they wandered idly about, or seated themselves to rest on the soft green turf, the bright calico frocks of the women lending a touch of gaudy coloring to the animated picture.

      As the day drew on the ranks of the pedestrians were swelled by the arrival of the élite of the town. Prancing horses and elegant vehicles dashed hither and thither, while many a rude country cart attested by its presence the fact that the furore had not been confined to the limits of the town itself. These equipages were the curse of many a deep and heartfelt execration, not only to the less fortunate and humble of the townsfolk, who, inextricably mixed in with the carriages, found their limbs and bodies in immediate danger from the hoofs of the horses, but also from the gendarmes, who labored industriously, but without success, to keep the field clear for the manœuvres of the troops.

      But if the men were loud in their anathemas, the women were no less absorbed in studying the costumes and toilets of those happy beings whose lives were made up of amusement and dress, who chatted and laughed and waved their scarlet sunshades and immense fans as if misfortune and suffering were things to which they were strangers, and life an existence out of which it was their duty to obtain as large a share of enjoyment as was possible.

      The phaeton occupied by Baroness d'Aubrac and Mademoiselle Rousel formed one of the brightest points in this brilliant scene. The toilet of Angelique was a revelation, which reduced many a gentle female heart to despair.

      Madame d'Aubrac was in the gayest of humors; her brown eyes sparkled as brightly as her diamonds; her slender, gloved hands were never quiet for a moment, now opening and shutting her large fan, now gesticulating in a manner so emphatic as to cause the ornaments that dangled from her bracelets to ring like a myriad of fairy sleighbells.

      The excitement of the baroness was contagious, and Henriette was soon emulating her friend in the exuberance of her animation. It was in vain that Aristide delivered a lecture on propriety of behavior; he was not even listened to; and young Lejeune, who occupied the fourth seat in the carriage, declared vigorously that they had come there for enjoyment, and the madame was right to amuse herself as much as possible. For, in fact, Abois had been suffering from a terrible case of the blues, and this occasion was undoubtedly a godsend to keep them all from dying of ennui.

      "You are right, monsieur," replied Angelique, laughing merrily; "and beyond that I feel very happy, very happy indeed. The skies are clear; the costumes of the peasants, gay and pleasing. I adore the military, especially the hussars; and above and beyond all else, I have the expectation of Monsieur Dantan's ball. Perhaps you do not know, Monsieur Lejeune, that I am simply wild when I hear the music of a waltz."

      "I trust, madame," said Lejeune, with a bow, "that in that case you will not forget me to-night."

      "See!" exclaimed Henriette, breaking in upon the conversation, "there is my uncle now. I suppose the hussars are about to arrive."

      "Why, my dear," said the baroness, as an open carriage containing the mayor of Abois advanced under the escort of two gendarmes, and took up a commanding position — "why, my dear, how is this? Where is Monsieur Léon's inamorata? I do not see the charming Russian anywhere."

      "Pshaw! Angelique, you are really too bad," replied Mademoiselle Rousel, with a slight blush. "Shall I never cure you of that ridiculous idea. Poor Valiska was unable to attend the review, but I have her positive promise for to-night."

      "There, there! en bas with Mademoiselle Zortichoff; here comes the hussars. And I assure you, Henriette, those blue uniforms and scarlet dolmans are infinitely prettier to me than Valiska's gray eyes."

      The loud blasts of trumpets and the strains of martial music heralded the approach of the troops. The next moment the long ranks of horsemen came sweeping up the meadow, the gold lace of their uniforms and the blades of their sabres glittering in the sunlight.

      "Oh, how charming Colonel Courcelles looks!" cried Angelique, clapping her little hands with enthusiasm, her cheeks flushing brightly and eyes beaming with merriment. "If I were a man I should surely be a soldier."

      "I assure you, madame," remarked Lejeune, "you are far more dangerous as you are at present."

      "And," Aristide sententiously observed, "therefore, Monsieur Lejeune, the more to be avoided. The burnt child dreads the fire."

      These words of wisdom appeared entirely wasted on the baroness, whose whole attention was now concentrated upon the cavalry.

      Colonel Courcelles was faithful to his promise to drive away from the memory of the inhabitants of Abois all unpleasant recollections, and for two hours the field was brilliant with the dashing horsemen and their prancing steeds.

      They wheeled and turned; formed line and column; charged and retreated; mounted and dismounted; the loveliness of the scene increased by the stirring notes of the bugle; the waving of flags and guidons; tossing plumes; the clatter of steel and brass; the heavy tramp of the horses' hoofs; and the deep tones of command ringing out above the noise of the music.

      The spectators were delighted, enraptured, wild with enthusiasm; and when the last manœuvre was executed, and the hussars, forming into line, filed away in the direction of their barracks, the Baroness d'Aubrac sank back upon the soft cushions of the carriage with a sigh of regret.

      "It was exquisite — beautiful, lovely," she declared; "and now she was not to be spoken to. She wished to be silent, that she might remember how handsome Colonel Courcelles looked upon his black steed."

      And indeed, during the drive home she turned a deaf ear to all the compliments that young Lejeune poured upon her, and treated with sovereign contempt Vis's irreverent remark "that the horses were by far better-looking than the men, especially Colonel Courcelles's black."

*       *       *       *       *      *

      The residence of the mayor of Abois seemed transformed into a fairy palace when, upon the night of the review, Aristide, with the baroness on his arm, alighted from their carriage. The entrance was ablaze with many-colored lights, festooned with flags, and decorated with evergreens.

      Within the doorway stood two hussars, the blue and scarlet of their uniforms agreeing well with the mass of rare flowers with which the walls of the vestibule were adorned. Two more stood at the foot of the grand staircase, which was wreathed and twisted with ivy and smilax.

      At the head of the stairs, upon a background of tri-colored flags, was suspended a magnificent trophy of arms, sabres, pistols, and lances, cunningly shaped into crescents and stars.

      The ante-rooms and salons were perfumed with thou sands of roses, with which the walls, tables, mantels — in short, every available spot — were decorated. Scarlet roses, white roses, pink roses — roses of every shade and tint — were there in lavish profusion. And little less rich were the hues of the costumes, and little less lovely and attractive the bright, charming faces, and the exquisite toilets, with which the large and spacious rooms were crowded.

      The loud clash of the band pouring forth a quick and seductive gallop rose loud above the hum of conversation. Monsieur Dantan and his niece stood just within the salon to receive their guests, and Madame d'Aubrac remarked to Aristide as they passed that Monsieur le Maire must have heard some very agreeable news, for he was looking simply radiant.

      "Do you know, my dear, that man's face for the last two weeks has haunted me. Upon my word, one would have said, to judge from his expression, that he had just slain his grandmother, or some other venerable relative. On my word, I cannot tell you how I pitied poor Henriette, condemned to sit every day with that wolf's face opposite to her at the table. I could never have endured it, and now, all in a flash, monsieur is as bright as a new napoleon. What do you suppose is the cause?"

      "How can I tell, Angelique? You say the man is in love, and I never undertake such a work of supererogation as to explain the actions of a man in such an unfortunate condition."

      "Hush, Aristide; you are a perfect bear! But where is the fascinating siren to whose seductive voice Monsieur Léon would so willingly listen? Where is the lovely Valiska, the beautiful Russian? I don't see her anywhere, although I am by no means blind. Ah, yes; this is your dance, Colonel Courcelles. I did not forget my promise. The first is for you."

      The handsome colonel offered his arm with a smile of gratified vanity, and Angelique, placing her tiny gloved hand on the gold-laced sleeve of this gallant soldier, Aristide was left alone.

      "I wonder if it is possible for a man to find any place in this wilderness of perfume and flowers where he can get a breath of God's pure air?" grumbled Aristide, as he forced his way through the crowd of dancers, who trod upon his toes, and jostled him in a manner to try his philosophic temperament to the uttermost.

      He at length succeeded in reaching a place of safety near one of the windows, from which he might command a view of the room without the risk of suffocation. The coup-d'œil was brilliant indeed, and even the hardened heart of the stoic was not insensible to the many attractive and lovely faces that flashed by him in panoramic procession.

      The uniforms of the officers added that brilliancy of coloring usually wanting on such occasions, and made the black-coated civilians appear like melancholy spectres by contrast with their gay trappings.

      "Well, after all, I suppose I am not so very unfortunate," muttered Vis, as Madame d'Aubrac whirled by in the arms of the brave colonel. "Angelique is undoubtedly a very handsome woman, and who knows," he added, with a sigh, "but what she may some day get tired of this sort of thing."

      The young man's praise seemed tame indeed for the beautiful baroness. Nothing could be more lovely than the appearance of the brunette — her cheeks bright with color, her dark eyes flashing with animation.

      The elaborate toilet of white satin, with its trimming of rich laces and clusters of lilies-of-the-valley, revealed all the delicate perfection of her exquisite form. The sculptured beauty of the rounded arms, and the lovely shoulders and neck, were unconcealed by the square-cut of the corsage, whose revelations none could condemn. Diamonds glittered in the heavy coils of her chestnut hair, and diamond bracelets made more noticeable the slenderness of the wrists which they encircled.

*       *       *       *       *      *

      Vis sank insensibly into a pleasant reverie, which continued for some time undisturbed. Couple after couple passed by unnoticed; lovely faces, magnificent toilets, seemed to have no power to attract his attention, until suddenly and abruptly recalled to consciousness by the appearance of two of the dancers, who glided by with an easy grace that seemed the very idealization and poetry of motion. It was Mademoiselle Zortichoff and Captain Dantan.

      Valiska was transfigured — charming, exquisite. The plain black robe which she habitually wore had given place to a costume de bal of some diaphanous material of soft creamy white, with delicate touches of pink, whose long, floating folds lent an air of angelic and spiritual loveliness to the fragile form of the young Russian. She seemed a very seraph clothed in the rosy clouds of morning. The snowy check was slightly flushed; the large gray eyes were dark, with an expression of melting tenderness. There was even something of a caress in the way the slender form rested in the encircling arms of her handsome partner, and in the confiding presence of the little gloved hand, which lay upon his shoulder. It was only for a moment that Aristide gazed upon the charming face, but it seemed to him that even in that moment he could read the whole secret of Valiska's unhappy attachment.

      "Poor girl, poor girl!" he muttered, half aloud, as they disappeared among the throng of dancers; "poor girl!"

      "And pray who is the poor girl?" cried a gay voice at his elbow, which made him turn quickly.

      It was Mademoiselle Rousel and young Lejeune, who had approached his place of refuge without being observed, so deeply had he been absorbed in this new proof of Valiska's love for his friend.

      "I fear, Monsieur Vis," continued Henriette, "that you have been dreaming again. Surely you should be able to find some better occupation, with so many pretty faces around you; and now, Monsieur Lejeune, I will no longer hold you captive. I will not trespass on your good nature any further, for I am sure Monsieur Vis will take care of me. They are starting another waltz, so you will just be in time to secure a partner. "

      The young man murmured a polite denial of any desire to be released from his thralldom, which Mademoiselle Rousel rewarded with a bewitching smile as she accepted the arm which Aristide offered.

      "This way, Monsieur Vis," she said, as the young man hurried away to obey her command; "if we can get through the crowd to the music-room we will find it cooler there."

      It was not without considerable difficulty that this was accomplished, and when they reached the little apartment, Henriette sank down with an air of great relief upon one of the comfortable couches, and began to fan herself energetically, her flushed face bearing token to the truth of her words "that it was really too warm."

      Early in their acquaintance Aristide had conceived a great liking for the merry girl, and this had increased, since Henriette's sudden and devoted friendship for the Baroness d'Aubrac had made him more familiar with the young lady's character.

      Henriette was never at a loss for something to say, and it was generally something amusing. The little room had been turned into a miniature conservatory, and there was an air of coolness about the green leaves and the dimly-lighted gas-burners that was exceedingly refreshing after the heat of the grand salon.

      A few couples were seated about on the luxurious tête-a-tête sofas, and the first to attract their attention was Madame d'Aubrac and the "colonel."

      It was a charming picture indeed. The handsome soldier was leaning slightly forward, holding in his own the slender gloved fingers of his companion, who was listening with an air of well-pleased satisfaction to his whispered words.

      "Upon my word, Angelique is too bad. She will absolutely turn poor Courcelles's head."

      "Then he will not be the first who has suffered in that way. Madame's victims are everywhere."

      The baroness chanced to look up at this moment, and observing Aristide and Henriette, she broke into a merry laugh, which somewhat disconcerted the colonel.

      "Come here, my dear," she cried; "come here and listen to all the charming things that Colonel Courcelles is saying to me. On my word, those gallant soldiers are absolutely irresistible. But, monsieur, if you have finished with my hand ——"

      A second burst of merriment, caused by the abrupt manner in which the disconcerted colonel dropped the little hand, was re-echoed by Henriette and Aristide, much to the gentleman's confusion.

      "There, Monsieur le Colonel," said Angelique, in a soothing voice, observing the ill-concealed vexation of the other's manner — "you must forgive me. You know it's wrong to cherish ill-feeling, and, and — you men do look too stupid when you try to be sentimental."

      "Well, madame," replied Courcelles, "in that case I should say that Monsieur le Maire is looking positively idiotic."

      The glance which the speaker threw toward the doorway turned the eyes of the group in that direction.

      The Mayor of Abois, with a lady upon his arm, was entering the room. It was Mademoiselle Zortichoff.

      The expression upon the face of Monsieur Dantan could be read by the most inexperienced observer. Joy, excitement, and a certain undefinable shyness, were plainly imprinted on the handsome features.

      As to Valiska, her countenance was pale as marble, and there was a certain tremulousness about the scarlet lips which bespoke a strong emotion, curbed with evident difficulty.

      Monsieur Léon advanced directly toward his niece, who could not repress a show of surprise at her uncle's manner.

      "Henriette, my dear child, you have always been tenderly sympathetic to me. Sympathize with me now in this, which is indeed the moment of my greatest happiness. Mademoiselle has just conferred upon me the most inestimable of blessings, by consenting to be my wife."

      The suddenness of this communication drew a low exclamation of astonishment from every one. The next moment surprise gave place to well-bred ease, and each hastened to proffer their congratulations to Valiska and the mayor.

      So absorbed were all in this pleasant task that Aristide alone noticed Captain Dantan, who had entered the room and approached the group. Irresistibly his glance turned from Henri to the pale face of Valiska. She, too, had observed the young man, and the spasm of pain that passed over her countenance, though evanescent as a fleeting cloud, did not escape the attention of the philosopher.

      He turned again to his friend. No trace of emotion was visible in Captain Dantan's features, and the manner in which he offered his good wishes satisfied Vis that the young man was unaware of the misplaced attachment of which he was the object.

      The news of the joyous event spread rapidly through the crowded ballroom, and the guests thronged in to add their tribute of respect and congratulation to one who had always been the most admired and best beloved citizen of Abois.

      It was, indeed, an ovation to Léon Dantan and his charming fiancée. For this night, at least, all remembrances save those of joy and pleasure seemed to have passed away from the world of Abois. The mysterious murderer who had stalked through her streets and left the bloody imprint of his hand upon the pallid corpses of three of its children had vanished from sight beneath the roses and lilies, the jasmines and camellias; driven away like the storm-cloud before the glance of the sun, by the gay laughter of rosy lips and the soft, entrancing murmurs of the waltz. "And now, mon cher," said Angelique d'Aubrac, as they drove homeward in the small hours of the morning, "I wish to know how you are going to explain this conduct of your Russian?"

      "Madame," replied Aristide, with the gravity of a judge deciding some momentous cause, "the wise man never tries to explain the actions of a woman. Permit me, madame," and throwing open the door of the carriage, he offered his hand to assist the baroness to alight.

---

CHAPTER XXIII.

      THE cabaret of "La Bonne Colombe" stood near the corner of the Rue d'Orville and the Rue de l'Arbre. The Rue d'Orville had once been the grand street of Abois, that is, in a time when Abois had been a small and unimportant village; but modern improvement had stolen away most of this grandeur to bestow it upon newer and more frequented thoroughfares, and one by one the shopkeepers had deserted the Rue d'Orville for the Rue Magenta. The street was now chiefly occupied by dwellings, with one or two ancient cabarets, and was as quiet and monotonous a place as could well be imagined.

      "La Bonne Colombe" was a low, old-fashioned building of two stories, with a steep, slanting roof of red tile which time had long ago decorated with a covering of thick green moss. Whatever had been the original color of the walls, they had now, under the heat of the sun, faded into a dull, uniform gray which showed them long strangers to the touch of the painter's brush. The windows were small and square, with diminutive panes of thick greenish glass; the two lower ones, which were placed on each of the entrance-doors, slightly abutted from the building, forming a place for the exhibition of numerous long-necked bottles, which were tastefully grouped against the red cotton curtain at the back.

      This was La Bonne Colombe by daylight. By night it was a dim, uncertain mass, faintly illuminated by the red light which shone through the windows, and by a huge green lantern suspended immediately above the doorway, bearing upon its smoky side the image of some fabulous creature of the fowl kind, in which long acquaintance alone could make any one recognize a resemblance to a dove.

      How many times Aristide Vis had passed this place on his way to his cottage, the Hermitage, without its attracting his attention, it would be hard to say; and why he should have stopped in front of the cabaret upon the second night after the mayor's ball, is one of those mysteries that Providence alone can explain. Perhaps it was mere curiosity, perhaps it was chance, perhaps it was a higher and more overruling Power, but stop he did, and a single glance through the open doorway awoke in the breast of the young man a feeling of the deepest interest.

      The room of which he commanded a view was of considerable size, the ceiling very low, and the whitewashed walls dingy and discolored with the stains which time and tobacco-smoke had impressed upon them. A fantastic arrangement of colored tissue paper fluttered from the ceiling, and this, too, old age had toned down into a dingy uniformity. At each side of the room was a row of square deal tables, having a passage through the centre to the back of the apartment. Here was a small bar, a counter covered with zinc, and a background of shelves, upon which were jugs, bottles and glasses, pewter measures and tin cups — in short, all the requisites to assuage the wants of the thirsty.

      This was the sanctuary presided over by the venerable Mère Ponisse, who spent her time knitting away at her interminable stocking and dealing out the liquors to three ancient men to whom the term garçon seemed a ludicrous mockery.

      On this especial night quite a number of guests were regaling themselves in the large room of La Bonne Colombe. The smoke of their pipes and cigarettes floated up to the ceiling in a thick blue cloud, through which the oil-lamps shone with a misty yellow light. The guests were chiefly citizens of the middle class, men past the meridian of life, whose seamed and wrinkled faces, flushed with excitement and wine, would have furnished admirable studies for the pencil of Gavarni or Cham. The place was noisy with garrulous voices, with which was mingled the clatter of dominoes, the game most patronized by the frequenters of La Bonne Colombe.

      It was a lively scene, but would have undoubtedly attracted no more than a passing glance from Aristide, had it not been for a couple of men, who, seated at one of the tables near the upper end of the room, seemed entirely immersed in their game. It was the sight of these two which had suddenly rooted Vis to the spot, and made him an attentive observer of their every motion. Yes, whatever might have been his first doubt, a second glance convinced him that the players were Orloff Ivanovich and Guimand, the agent of police.

      What was the explanation of this singular companionship?

      Aristide's thoughts flew back to the evening when he and Henri Dantan had witnessed the interview between this very man and Mademoiselle Zortichoff in the cemetery. Like a flash passed through his mind the recollection of what Valiska had said of the strange questions which the agent had put to her. Could it be that Guimand had fallen into the same mistake in which he, Aristide, had once been involved?

      He entered the open door and made his way quietly toward the table at which the two were seated. His entrance appeared almost unnoticed. For one moment he fancied that he saw the sharp gray eyes of the detective fixed upon him with a quick, inquisitive glance, but the next instant he was satisfied that this was a mistake, so calm and unmoved was the appearance of the man. As for Orloff, his back was turned toward him, and the old man sat stiff and rigid as a statue.

      Vis succeeded in obtaining a seat, where, without being observed himself, he could not only see, but hear, everything that went on between this ill-assorted pair.

      When the garçon had retired after serving him with the wine for which he had called, the young man strained his ears to catch the conversation between his neighbors. It was a very one-sided conversation indeed.

      The agent Guimand had even more than the lion's share. He rattled on with an ease and rapidity that was really marvelous, while Orloff contented himself with grunting an occasional affirmative, or growling out a muttered execration when ill-luck turned the game against him. A large bottle of brandy stood on the table, and Aristide noticed that the agent, while very temperate in the use of the liquor himself, was assiduous in filling the old man's glass, which Orloff was no less ready in emptying.

      The voluble flow of words which Guimand poured upon his impassive companion consisted of a résumé of all the news of the day, and the listener remarked that vailed under a mass of unimportant nonsense were several shrewd and searching questions, pointing toward the recent crimes.

      The terms of familiarity existing between the pair plainly proved that this was not their first meeting, but whatever might have been the agent's success in the past, for this evening, at least, he was doomed to disappointment.

      Old Orloff was in the worst of humors; luck seemed dead against him, and he bore his bad fortune with anything but a good grace.

      For a half-hour Aristide sat and patiently listened to the unceasing babble of the detective, which was broken only by the clatter of the dominoes and the angry exclamations of the Russian.

      At length Orloff's rage appeared to reach a point beyond his control; striking the table a heavy blow with his clinched fist, which made the dominoes rattle, and the glasses and bottles clink and jingle, the old man sprang to his feet, and without any other word of adieu except a growl of denunciation, tramped out of the room.

      For some moments after this sudden and abrupt departure Guimand sat idly spinning one of the dominoes round and round, silently watching the little piece of ivory in its revolutions, apparently lost in thought. Without the slightest warning he turned suddenly, and touching Aristide on the shoulder, inquired, in a polite voice "Whether monsieur would like to play a game?"

      Vis was entirely unprepared for this proof of the agent's knowledge of his presence. He gave a slight start, and then recovering himself with an effort, he assumed the seat which Orloff had just vacated, saying "He would be happy to join the gentleman in a game."

      The dominoes were arranged in silence, and in silence the game began, Vis waiting for the other to begin the conversation.

      "Well, monsieur," said the agent, after three or four dominoes had been played, "that old fellow is either a cheat, or he has a head of marble. Here night after night have I poured brandy enough into him to float a ship, and will you believe me, it has no more effect on him than water. He only grows closer and closer with every glass; so that, in spite of all that I have done, I have not been able to get a word out of him."

      "But pray," replied Aristide, "how came you to make the acquaintance of Orloff? and what, may I ask, did you expect to obtain from him?"

      "Come, come!" cried Charles Guimand, fixing his keen eye on the young man's face. "You know well, monsieur, what information I expected to obtain from this man. Why, it was you yourself who first put me on his track. You look surprised?"

      "I confess it."

      "And yet you should not. I know that for a long time you have been watching a certain beautiful young lady, and I know, too, why you have been watching her."

      "Monsieur! monsieur ——"

      "Excuse me, it was my duty to watch and seek; for this I was sent down from Paris; and I have watched and sought, and shall I tell you what I have found?"

      "I assure you," cried Vis, excitedly, "you are making a terrible mistake; a cruel, a hideous mistake."

      "I am only following in your footsteps, monsieur; and I may say that I have to thank you that I obtained the first clew in this dark and tangled affair."

      Aristide made a gesture of dissent, but the other went on without noticing it.

      "After reading your testimony and that of the other witnesses, taken down by Monsieur Duquesnay's clerk, I immediately arrived at a conclusion; that is my way, monsieur. I said to myself, this crime was committed by a woman, and I began to look around for the murderess. Chance led me at first into a wrong channel, and I was guilty of the absurd mistake of suspecting that poor Madame Marrois. I discovered from that chatterer, Aglaé Pichaud, all about Stéphanie's visit to the fête, and I humbly admit to you that for a time I thought her guilty. But we employés of the Prefecture are thrown too often with criminals not to recognize true innocence, and Madame Marrois's testimony convinced me at once of my error. It was then for the first time that my attention was attracted to you. The account which I obtained from Monsieur Duquesnay of your excitement over the exchange of gloves led me to believe that you knew something more than you cared to tell. I watched you, monsieur, closely; so closely that I think I almost read your thoughts." Accepting the look of blank astonishment upon Aristide's face as a compliment to his astuteness, the detective went on, with a slight smile: "Watching you soon led me to watch somebody else, and little by little I picked up the threads of the clew. I discovered in what direction your suspicions had turned, and I set myself to work to verify their correctness. This is not the first time that you have seen me at my work, as you can doubtless remember, monsieur. Well, day by day I labored and watched, and then suddenly came that second crime, the murder of Madame Robert and her daughter; and on this occasion an inspiration from heaven cleared up all that was dark and mysterious in the death of Madame Marrois. I now know to whom belonged that glove which was found by young Lejeune in the arbor of the public garden, by the side of the dead man's body. I know more — I know by whom that glove was stolen, and the other substituted for it; the one which came so near criminating Stéphanie Marrois. And more, still more — I know the cause that prompted this theft."

      The exclamation of astonishment trembling upon Vis's lips was checked by a warning glance from the other. Bending toward his companion and lowering his voice to a whisper, Guimand said, in an impressive tone, his gray eyes fixed upon Aristide's, to read the full effect of his revelation:

      "The cause of the theft was love. The man who stole the glove was the Mayor of Abois, and the woman who committed these murders was Mademoiselle Valiska Zortichoff!"

---

CHAPTER XXIV.

      ARISTIDE recoiled, dumb and horror-stricken, before the denunciation of the police agent. Incapable of speech or motion, he sat and stared in helpless amazement at the inexpressive face of his neighbor. Even when his suspicions were at their strongest, he had never shaped his thoughts into words, and his bold and open declaration of Valiska's guilt for the moment paralyzed his every faculty. Mingled with other feelings was the deepest regret.

      To think that his stupid credulity, his baseless suspicions, should have turned this man into a spy upon the actions of that innocent and helpless girl. It was almost as if he himself had spoken the accusation which had just dropped from the lips of Guimand. If not the speaker, he was certainly the cause of the speech; he had this on the assurance of the man himself. A sense of deep and unmitigated shame filled his breast, and kept him for the moment silent. When at length he did speak, the effort required to control the powerful emotions at war within him lent a deep and solemn sternness to his words.

      "Monsieur, I cannot reproach you for having done what you supposed to be your duty. All the ignominy of this shameful accusation must rest upon my head, if, as you say, I was the one who first drew your attention to Mademoiselle Zortichoff. I say again I cannot reproach you for having done your duty. But I do tell you, and I call God to witness the truth of my words, that this young lady is as guiltless of the foul crimes of which you have accused her as either you or I myself. Do not interrupt me," continued the young man, energetically, as the agent strove to speak. "I know the truth of what I say. I acknowledge to you that much you have said is correct. I did, at one time, suspect Mademoiselle Valiska. I take shame to myself to admit it. But Heaven, as if to punish me for this weakness and credulity, picked me out for a witness to the young girl's innocence."

      "What are you saying, monsieur?"

      "The truth; the simple truth. On the night when Madame Robert and her unfortunate daughter were murdered, at the very time when the murderer's hands were red with the blood of his victims, and their lives were ebbing away from the wounds inflicted by his cruel knife — at that very time Mademoiselle Zortichoff was seated quietly at home in her own cottage. Ah! you may look incredulous, but I speak only the truth. By one of those remarkable chances which seems almost inexplicable, it happened that Captain Dantan and myself were Mademoiselle Zortichoff's guests upon the evening of the murder. Stop! Now I think of it, you were yourself a witness to our meeting with the young lady at the entrance of the Cemetery of St. Jean. From that place we accompanied her to her cottage, and never left her until we bade her adieu at eleven o'clock, only a few moments before our rencontre with that mysterious woman whose hands even then were wet with the sanguinary proof of her frightful work. So you see, monsieur, as I said, Heaven has willed that Captain Dantan and myself should be witnesses to Mademoiselle Zortichoff's complete innocence."

      He paused to notice the effect of his words. The agent had concealed his face in his hands, and with his head bowed down, was absorbed in deep and silent thought. Aristide forbore to break in upon this contemplation, and it was Guimand himself who first reopened the conversation.

      "But the man!" he suddenly cried, raising his head.

      "I know whom you suspect. My testimony must exonerate him as completely as his mistress. He was never out of my sight during the whole of that eventful evening, and it was he who closed and locked the door upon us when we left the cottage. You see, monsieur, his vindication is clear and plain."

      Again there was a silence between them, as the agent, once more covering his face, relapsed into thought. For the second time Aristide declined to break this silence, and for the second time it was Charles Guimand who renewed the conversation.

      "Nom de Dieu!" he exclaimed, striking the table energetically with his fist. "If what you say is true — excuse me, I do not doubt your word — but if what you say is true, then I am the most stupid fool in the universe; for I would have taken an oath that the case against this young woman was as clear as day. You talk about chance, or Providence, but surely it must have been Providence that sent you here to-night, for if I had filed my accusation, as I intended, to-morrow, I am sure, after what you have said, that I should have been dismissed from the force for my stupidity. But, oh! monsieur, you must not suppose that I allowed myself to be influenced by mere suspicion in this affair. You cannot imagine how many things pointed at this young lady as the author of these mysterious crimes. Perhaps you did not know," continued the agent, in response to Aristide's look of inquiry — "perhaps you did not know that this Mademoiselle Zortichoff was the affianced wife of Monsieur Marrois ——"

      "Ah!"

      "I know why you start in that way. It is already town-talk that the beautiful young girl is to become Madame Dantan."

      "And what proof have you to sustain the accusation?"

      "Very strong proof, indeed. A will found by me amongst the private papers of Monsieur Marrois; a will in which he speaks of this marriage in positive terms, and in consideration thereof makes Mademoiselle Zortichoff his universal legatee. This was, to me, the darkest piece of evidence against the lady; for here, at last, was a motive for the crime.

      Aristide was for a moment overwhelmed by this astounding revelation.

      "But Monsieur Marrois was supposed to have died intestate. How was it this will was never presented?"

      "Simply because it was unsigned, monsieur. It was valueless, except as proof against mademoiselle; for no one can say but what she thought it signed, and hoped, at one blow, to make herself mistress of the fortune, and at the same time rid herself of a disagreeable incumbrance in the shape of Monsieur Pierre."

      "Ah! that sounds too cold and mercenary. Would you have me believe that whilst accepting Marrois as her affianced husband, this young girl was deliberately planning his death? No, I do not, I cannot, believe that!"

      "Nor do I say that such was originally mademoiselle's idea. For a while she undoubtedly proposed to pay the price, heavy as it was, which would secure to her this fortune; this fortune which represented ease and comfort to her afflicted brother. Had things remained unchanged, the young lady would certainly have become Madame Marrois. But, alas! a change did occur. Captain Dantan arrived at Abois."

      "Monsieur!" exclaimed Aristide, with offended hauteur, "what would you insinuate? Captain Dantan is my friend."

      "I insinuated nothing," calmly replied the agent; "especially against the captain. But you will not deny that mademoiselle's face has betrayed her secret to you."

      "But I cannot see the connection. And yet it is plain. As long as Mademoiselle Zortichoff had nothing but her personal dislike to Monsieur Pierre to combat, the union was possible. But another feeling soon arose to bar her way to the acquisition of this fortune which she coveted. The strongest of all feelings — love."

      "Ah!"

      "With this love in her heart the match became every day more and more repugnant to the unfortunate girl. Her situation was a frightful one. She must have the money, and yet she could not make up her mind to resign Captain Dantan. There was but one way out of the dilemma. Consider what would have been the position of mademoiselle on the day after Marrois's murder, had that will been signed which I discovered amongst the dead man's papers? Wealth, and the man she loved! Ma foi! The stake was a big one." The speaker stopped, considered for a moment, and then resumed: "This is the history of the affair up to the night of the fête. I will not speak of what took place in the garden. for you are as familiar with it as myself. I will only ask you to remember the extraordinary beauty of the masked woman's hands — a beauty so remarkable as to have attracted the attention of poor Madame Marrois, the garçon, and even the driver of the fiacre. The exquisite symmetry of Mademoiselle Zortichoff's hand is too apparent, monsieur, to have escaped your notice. Again call to mind the testimony of the cab-driver, and especially the place where the unknown entered his vehicle — the corner of the Rue Magenta and the Rue d'Orville, only a few steps from the cottage of mademoiselle. And the strange man who engaged the fiacre, the disguised individual who spoke in a gruff and grumbling voice. But there, I will say no more of that, but go straight on to a discovery which I considered conclusive. You must have noticed the singular conduct of Monsieur le Maire upon that occasion. Indeed, I have reason to know that you did notice it. The brigadier of gendarmes informed me that you evinced the utmost astonishment at the deep and inexplicable emotion displayed by Monsieur Dantan, especially on the discovery of the glove by young Lejeune."

      "I confess it!" cried Aristide; "but again, I do not see the connection."

      "Nor did I at first. My eyes were not opened until you yourself revealed to Monsieur le Juge the exchange which had been made in the gloves. It puzzled me to think who could have made this change. Monsieur le Juge declared the glove had never been out of his possession from the moment it had been handed him by the mayor, and that gentleman said he had not parted with it from the time he received it from your hand in the arbor. My game seemed blocked. I was in despair. It was then that I suddenly conceived the idea of watching you. I discovered your suspicion of mademoiselle, and following up this clew, step by step, I arrived at a solution which explained satisfactorily all that was dark and mysterious — the excitement of the mayor upon the occasion of the murder, and the glove. Again the motive power was love, but this time the love of a man. Do you understand me, monsieur?"

      "But too well," replied Aristide. "You think Léon Dantan stole that glove?"

      "I do. I am satisfied that he thought he recognized it, and immediately took the one course necessary to protect the young girl that is, the removal of that glove, which might have convicted her."

      "Monsieur Guimand, you argue well. Nothing but my positive knowledge of the innocence of the young lady keeps me from being affected by the strength of your reasoning. But what about the second crime?"

      "There, monsieur, I am still in the dark, and it was to make my way out of this obscurity that I have been, night after night, filling that beastly Russian with Mère Ponisse's best cognac. A man dealt the blow that prostrated Pauline Robert. This Orloff is tall enough and strong enough to have been the assailant; but if you will believe me, not a word have I been able to extract from him that could afford me the slightest glimpse of light."

      Aristide, who had been musing for some time, scarcely conscious of what the other had been saying, now suddenly exclaimed:

      "But how do you explain this new engagement between Mademoiselle Zortichoff and the mayor?"

      "Ah!" replied the agent, with a meaning smile; "Monsieur Léon has known how to use the secret in his keeping to advantage. Mademoiselle is paying for her safety with her hand."

      "No, no! I tell you the lady is innocent."

      "Of course; but Monsieur Dantan does not think so." Aristide Vis sat stunned and overpowered — crushed beneath these weighty proofs, which one by one the agent hurled at him, until he was almost tempted to doubt the evidence of his own senses.

      The man's explanation was so natural and so conclusive; everything seemed clear that had formerly been obscure, so that he found himself almost unable to credit that this was not the truth. He shuddered to think of this peril from which he had just saved Valiska.

      All the horror and shame of a public accusation rose up before him. Surely it could not have been chance alone that brought him that night to La Bonne Colombe, but rather some protecting genius, who watched over the innocent and friendless girl.

      The agent continued to speak, but his words fell unheeded upon Vis's ear. The moments slipped by, but the mind of the visionary traveled round and round in a circle of thought — a phantasmagoria, in which Léon Dantan, Henri, Valiska, and other dim and ghostly shapes, formed the central figures.

      It was with a cry almost of pain that the young man suddenly awoke from his dreams to the consciousness that some one was shaking him by the arm.

      "Pardon me, monsieur," said the quiet, impassive voice of the agent from Paris; "pardon me for disturbing you, but you are unaware of the lateness of the hour; and see! the garçons are about to close the house. Before we part, one last favor. You have preserved me this night from the commission of an error which would undoubtedly have proved my ruin. In return I have been perfectly open with you — have laid bare to you all the evidence which led me to this singular mistake, and in which, without knowing it, you were my accomplice. Promise me to keep this interview a secret. My search must begin anew, and any warning, no matter how slight, might balk me in the chase."

      Aristide hastened to assure the man that the whole affair should be kept inviolate, and having obtained from Guimand his present address, the two men separated, the philosopher to his Hermitage, the spy to fade away into the darkness of the night.

---

CHAPTER XXV.

      VALISKA, apparently unconscious of the terrible danger from which she had been so miraculously preserved, thanks to that fortunate interview between Aristide and the agent, was enjoying to the full all the delights of her new position.

      Léon Dantan, not only on account of his official character, but also by reason of his wealth and intelligence, was justly considered the first citizen of Abois, and as his promised wife, Mademoiselle Zortichoff was overwhelmed with adulation and attention.

      All this she received with an easy grace, with a calm, unmoved dignity, as if this public homage was but her due.

      There had been at first a slight but marked constraint between her and Henriette, but this had apparently disappeared to give place to the old tie of friendship, though it was but too plain that a shadow now marred the intercourse between the young girls, formerly so open and unreserved.

      Madame d'Aubrac was of course indignant, and inveighed loudly against this sly creature, who had entrapped a man old enough to be her father. It was useless for Mademoiselle Rousel to undertake the defense of her uncle's fiancée. Angelique, as usual, would not listen to a word.

      The dislike which she had conceived for Valiska at first sight had never changed. She declared herself shocked at the open and unblushing manner in which this young girl had angled for a husband. She had always had a bad opinion of Valiska, and now she was satisfied there was no limit to the guilt of which the creature was capable. She must have a bad, depraved heart indeed — a sordid, mean, mercenary spirit — to sell herself in that way.

      "Love? Did Henriette say love? Pshaw! love was out of the question; that girl could not love. Love, indeed! Did Henriette want to drive her into a passion? Thank God! she had read mademoiselle's character from the first, and this engagement was but another proof that she had not been mistaken in her reading."

      And the little lady went on working herself into such a fury that Henriette Rousel wisely abandoned the subject. Meanwhile that pale, beautiful face was a subject of constant study to Aristide.

      A slight smile had taken the place of that expression of sadness which had formerly shadowed the lovely countenance. To him the sculptured features were a marble mask, under which he strove in vain to penetrate, that he might read aright the wild emotions at war within the young girl's breast. He alone, beneath that deceiving smile, could see the anguish which wrung this tortured heart. He alone, in the depths of those dark-gray eyes, could read the melancholy submission to the stern call of necessity.

      Valiska's face was to him a tragedy, and the more he studied it the less satisfied was he with the present condition of affairs. This conflict of passions, how would it end?

      Besides this study of Mademoiselle Zortichoff, another trouble tortured and harassed the philosopher. The poisoned arrow of suspicion with which the police agent had pierced his breast still rankled and festered in the wound. Could the man's words be true? Could it be that the Léon Dantan whom he had learned to admire and respect was really a base and mean-spirited wretch? a wretch capable of taking a low and cowardly advantage of the fears of a young girl, to force her into a hated union?

      Did Dantan believe in Valiska's guilt? if so, how could he, the esteemed and respected citizen, intrust the honor of his name to a woman whose hands were red with the blood of his friends. It was revolting, beyond credence, and yet often as he repelled with indignation these base suspicions, as often did they return to worry and annoy his distracted brain.

      How diligently had he labored to find a satisfactory solution to the exchange of gloves? Here was a solution that bore on its face the stamp of truth?

      While these vexing thoughts were disturbing the peace of the philosopher, the young people of Abois were following up with avidity the round of amusements initiated by Madame d'Aubrac. The review and the ball of the mayor had spurred every one into activity, and receptions, balls, dinners, followed each other in rapid succession. Every method by which pleasure and enjoyment could be extracted from the idle hours were eagerly seized upon.

      Higher and higher rose the pyramid of roses which was to hide away from the sight of all the gloomy spectre. Forgetfulness was to be found only in continued occupation, and, with Angelique for their queen, they hurried on, never stopping, never looking to one side. Drowning depressing thoughts in champagne and burgundy; gay, light-hearted, and careless, as if the darkness of the past had vanished for ever. The utmost fertility was displayed in devising new amusements, that the round of gayeties might be unbroken.

      Boating on the little river became fashionable, and the chance discovery that the horses of some of the hussar-officers would carry ladies led to the formation of equestrian parties. The Baroness d'Aubrac was a good horse-woman, and her mare was a familiar object to the idle loungers of the Bois. But in this species of diversion she found herself eclipsed by Mademoiselle Zortichoff.

      Valiska was a bold and fearless equestrian, and the ease with which "La Cosaque" managed her steed was the admiration of all, especially the gentlemen. Léon Dantan was ever by the side of his beautiful fiancée, and under the charm of her presence the look of pain and suffering gradually faded away from his face.

      It was a gay party, indeed, who turned into one of the country roads and spurred their horses into a brisk trot. It was a cool, pleasant evening toward the middle of Autumn; the brown leaves were fluttering down from the tall chestnut-trees that skirted the side of the road, and protected the equestrians from the long slanting rays of the sun, now slowly sinking to rest behind the low hills which bordered the western horizon.

      The blue sky, the warm sunlight, the fresh, invigorating breeze, stimulated and enlivened both the steeds and their riders; loud and prolonged were the peals of silvery laughter, and quick and sharp the badinage and repartee.

      Bright eyes looked brighter, and soft cheeks grew flushed and rosy. Poor Henriette was the universal jest. Whatever might be her other accomplishments, as a horsewoman Mademoiselle Rousel was a lamentable failure, and her awkwardness called forth many a burst of merriment. Upon this evening, especially, it required the most constant care and watchfulness to preserve her from accident — a watchfulness and care which seemed only too pleasant a task to the young hussar-officers who fluttered around the lady.

      Laughing and jesting over Henriette's troubles, they hurried on, urging their horses to a gallop, thus increasing the difficulty of the young girl's position, and doubling their own enjoyment.

      A turn in the road soon hid the joyous party from the sight of two of their number, who alone had not shared in the amusement afforded by Mademoiselle Rousel.

      This couple — a lady and gentleman — had reduced their horses' pace to a slow walk; they seemed unaware of the disappearance of their companions. There was an air of constraint in their manner toward each other as they moved silently along the now deserted road — a constraint which would have been noticeable even to a casual observer. On this evening, business of importance had prevented the attendance of Monsieur Léon upon his lady-love, and he had been forced to delegate that pleasant duty to his nephew.

      It was the first time that Henri and Valiska had been alone together since the evening of the ball. None knew, none suspected, unless it was Aristide, the struggle which the girl had been making during the past days to conquer her love for the young man, who now rode so calmly by her side.

      She feared to speak, lest even the tremor in her voice should betray her; and this silence, prolonged and unbroken, had gradually raised a constraint which had never existed in their intercourse.

      It seemed to Captain Dantan that he must have offended Valiska, but while unaware of having committed any fault, he yet hesitated to ask for information.

      Every moment the situation became more painful and disagreeable, and yet neither sought to put an end to it.

      To Valiska, if not real happiness, this might be at least the nearest approach to happiness that she would ever know.

      The man she loved was by her side. She felt like a moth fluttering around a devouring flame, which might consume her, but from which she lacked the courage to fly.

      As for Henri, he felt exceedingly uncomfortable, and would willingly have had this tête-à-tête brought to an end, but knew not how to accomplish it. While he was racking his brain for some means to break this oppressive silence, Fate took the task out of his hands in a sudden and unexpected manner.

      The low crackling of dry branches made itself audible, and pushing aside the thick bushes which at this point skirted both sides of the pathway, a woman stepped out into the open road. A tall and emaciated figure, clad in a loose jacket and skirt, with a man's hat of rough straw covering her head. Long, unkempt hair, almost white, hung down her back, and lent an air of startling wildness to her aspect.

      All this Captain Dantan took in at a glance; for, terrified by the sudden appearance of the woman, Mademoiselle Zortichoff's horse, after rearing and plunging violently, suddenly dashed away at a furious speed. With a muttered anathema, Henri spurred in pursuit. The race was a short but desperate one. Valiska's horse, getting the bit between his teeth, became entirely unmanageable, and swerving suddenly at a curve in the read, threw her violently to the ground.

      Henri was on his feet in a moment, and was bending over the insensible form. The pallid whiteness of the beautiful face sent a sickening pang through his heart — a fear lest this might be death. But a closer examination showed him that, whatever might be the injuries she had received, Valiska was at least still alive.

      Immediate aid and assistance were absolutely necessary. Dantan looked around for the unfortunate cause of the accident, but the woman had disappeared. He was delighted to perceive at no great distance down a narrow lane, which entered the road at a point near the spot where Valiska had been thrown from her horse, the outlines of a low, irregular building.

      Without a moment's hesitation he raised the still unconscious girl in his arms, and hastened in the direction in which he judged that help might be most quickly obtained.

      The two or three hundred yards which intervened between the main road and a rough wooden fence which surrounded the cottage were soon traversed, and passing through the open gateway, whose broken gate hung dangling by a single hinge from its post, Henri found himself in a small inclosure, immediately in front of the house.

      This had at one time perhaps been cultivated as a garden, for even yet some coxcombs and marigolds, and other coarse and hardy flowers, struggled bravely for existence with the tall grass, rank weeds, and tangled brambles, which had strangled and choked out the life of the frailer and more tender blossoms.

      Six or seven apple-trees were dotted about, their ragged and unpruned branches, heavy with the half-ripe fruit, and the tall suckers growing luxuriantly around the roots, bearing token to the small amount of care wasted upon their cultivation.

      The hut, or, rather, hovel — for it scarcely deserved a better name — was a low one-story building, with a thatched roof and weather-boarded walls. It was in the last stage of ruin and decay.

      The thatch was torn and pierced with largo holes, and overgrown with slimy, mossy fungus. The weather-boarding was cracked and broken, leaving large gapes and crevices, through which the interior of the building was visible.

      A tall brick chimney had formerly stood at either end of the house, but one of these was entirely destroyed, and the other in little better condition.

      A door, and two small windows, were the only openings through which air and light were admitted. The windows had once been glazed, but the place of the broken panes of glass was now supplied by dirty and frowsy articles of clothing or pieces of pasteboard.

      It was a scene of ruin and desolation painful to behold, but the human creatures who added a touch of animation to the picture formed even a still more pitiful spectacle.

      Upon a clumsy wooden bench near the open doorway a young woman sat, lazily basking in the last rays of the setting sun.

      At her feet, a child of two years of age was playing with a tiny black-and-white kid, whose feeble bleating was answered by the loud and sonorous notes of its imprisoned mother.

      The young woman — or, rather, girl, for she had barely passed the verge of girlhood — was a wreck, far more sad than the ruin and devastation which surrounded her. Like the garden, she might at one time have been beautiful, for even yet traces remained of vanished loveliness — loveliness crushed out by the hand of poverty and suffering.

      The rounded cheeks had sunken away till the cheek-bones were visible, and exposure to the sun and wind had roughened and embrowned the complexion. The large dark eyes were fixed in a glazed and vacant stare, and the soft brown hair fell down upon the half-naked shoulders in a tangled and disordered mass.

      The form, once plump and rounded, had become gaunt and angular, and the slender hands were soiled and disfigured by labor. Her costume consisted of a loose jacket and skirt. But the gay hues of the jacket had long ago faded away, and both it and the blue serge skirt were tattered and torn.

      The little child gazed with round-eyed astonishment, as Dantan, with Valiska in his arms, approached the group; but the young woman appeared entirely unaware of her visitors, staring straight in front of her, in a dull, lethargic reverie.

      To Henri's request that "she would show him a place where mademoiselle could rest for a few moments," she made no reply, nor did she seem at all conscious of his words. A second repetition obtained no better success, but when for the third time Dantan reiterated his request, in a loud and rather angry tone of voice, the girl seemed gradually to become aware of his presence. Two or three times she passed her hand over her face, as if she was struggling in a dazed and confused manner to recall her scattered senses.

      At length she seemed aware for the first time of the presence of the young man and his lovely burden, and gazed with a stupid astonishment and admiration on the beautiful countenance of Mademoiselle Zortichoff.

      The pale face seemed to make a deep impression upon her, for, after some moments, she abruptly broke the silence, speaking in a shrill and discordant voice.

      "Is she dead? Is she dead? Did he strike her?" cried the strange creature, fixing her vacant eyes upon the young man's face. "But, no," she continued, suddenly changing her mood, and breaking into a low laugh; "but, no — how silly I am! how could he strike her, when he is dead himself — dead, dead, dead and buried under such a fine green mound, and with a tall, handsome pillar over it. Oh, yes, they thought Delphine did not know about it, and Mimi locked me up in the house; but, ha! ha! we climbed out of the window, Bébé and I, and — and ——" drawing nearer, she grasped Dantan by the arm. "Did you ever see a funeral?" she demanded, in a grave, inquiring tone. "Is it not a fine show? and his — oh, his, was so fine! all the horses and the plumes, and the men with their black cloaks, and the citizens with flowers — so gay, so gay! They thought I knew nothing about it, but I was there and saw it all." Then, with another sudden change: "Is she dead? is she dead? did he do it?" she again demanded, with an abruptness that startled her hearer.

      The incoherent language of the girl satisfied Henri that it would be vain to expect assistance from her, and without further delay he entered the cottage. An open doorway showed him a room, in which was a small pallet. On this he quickly placed his inanimate burden, and eagerly sought some means by which to restore her to consciousness.

      The interior of this room was as ruined and dilapidated as could well be conceived. The plastered wall was broken in many places, showing the rough laths and scantlings. The furniture consisted, in addition to the pallet upon which Valiska was lying, of a deal table and a chest of drawers of coarsely-painted wood. On this the young man perceived a brown earthenware pitcher, which to his delight he found to be filled with water. Quickly soaking his handkerchief, he began to bathe with the utmost solicitation the snowy forehead of the unconscious girl.

      In the meanwhile the young peasant had followed, and now stood in the open doorway of the room, gazing at him with a look of stolid and stupid astonishment. After a few moments she approached the bed, and sinking down on the floor beside him, smoothed in a timid, frightened manner the soft blonde tresses streaming in confusion over the only covering of the miserable couch.

      "Pretty, pretty, oh, ain't she pretty?" the poor creature babbled to herself. Then, with that startling abruptness which had formerly marked her conversation, she said to Henri: "Oh, yes, a funeral is fine, but then a fête is finer — oh, ever so much finer; all colored lights and fine dresses, and beautiful women and gay men in red coats — yes, yes, I was there, I and Mimi; Mimi took me there. What did we go for?" She stopped and seemed to consider, passing her hand confusedly over her forehead. "Oh, yes, we went to see him; he was there. Mimi and I were hiding in the bushes, watching, for he was with such a fine lady — a fine lady — a fine lady ——" Again the chain of thought was broken, and the girl relapsed into her babbling repetition of "Pretty, pretty, pretty."

      While the crazy woman was prattling in this incoherent manner, the young man had continued his efforts, and soon to his delight Mademoiselle Zortichoff began to evince signs of returning life. She heaved a deep sigh, and opening her eyes, gazed confusedly around her; the first sight she beheld was the handsome face of the young man, who bent over her with affectionate anxiety imprinted upon all his features.

      In that moment everything was forgotten except the love which filled her torn and bleeding heart; the emotion against which she had struggled so long and bravely now swelled into power irresistible and beyond her control, bursting all the frail barriers with which she had sought to curb it, and hurrying her along to a confession of her miserable secret.

      Without a thought of what she was doing, she yielded to her feelings, and throwing her soft arms around his neck, drew him closer and closer to her, murmuring in a low, thrilling voice, "My darling! my darling! my love!"

      In the next instant her lips were pressed to his in a long and burning kiss.

(To be continued.)

HENRIETTE.

      WHAT a thing is man! Until this fatal moment Henri had certainly felt for the young girl, whose arms encircled his neck, whose lips were pressed so fondly to his, no deeper emotion than pity for her friendless condition, or, at the most, admiration for her extraordinary beauty. Everything conspired to separate them as widely as the North and South Pole.

      An insurmountable wall arose between them a wall upon which the young man could read, emblazoned in glaring distinctness, the words, "Honor, Loyalty and Duty" — honor to the unprotected and defenseless girl, loyalty to Henriette, duty to his uncle. A yawning chasm divided the betrothed husband of Mademoiselle Rousel from the affianced wife of Léon Dantan.

      But there was hot young blood in his veins — fiery blood — that boiled and surged tumultuously under the deep emotion awakened within his breast by those burning caresses.

      This woman seemed to him the one being on earth whom he desired. For the first time he felt the full meaning of the word love. His affection for Henriette had grown with his growth — a pure and steady flame that burned with a clear and unflickering light. But this new and strange passion was like one of those wild convulsions of Nature, that sends the devouring and scorching lava down the torn and furrowed sides of Etna and Vesuvius.

      Duty, loyalty and honor faded away like the dissolving views of a fantascope.

      He fell on his knees by the side of the couch, and, with a tender pathos born of the tumult that raged within him, poured out his tale of love.

      For a little space Valiska, with shame-closed eyelids, and cheeks flushed and red, with vivid blushes, lay motionless in the embrace of his arms. If silent, she did net repulse him; if not accepting his vows of eternal devotion, she at least did not refuse them.

      Within this narrow circle of time, within these fleeting moments slipping so rapidly away, her whole life was compressed. Beyond was eternity and darkness. It was wrong, but still too sweet to be lightly parted with. For these seconds at least Henri seemed her very own. How could she give him up — how could she?

      But with this thought came others, dark and gloomy, crushing out this airy and unreal dream in which she had allowed herself to indulge.

      A shudder ran through her slender form; the realities of existence returned to her once more; the time for dreams was past and gone for ever; the moment had come in which she must make the struggle to crush down her foolish and insane passion, this flower which was never to bloom.

      Painful as was the effort, there was yet some consoling balm in the thought that she was making this sacrifice for Henri's sake, and he would never know what the struggle cost her.

      Reason had returned to her; the good fight must be fought at once.

      Nerving herself with desperate courage to her task, she gently but firmly released herself from the young man's arms, in spite of all his efforts to detain her.

      "No!" she cried, in an icy and determined voice, as she rose to a sitting position on the side of the little pallet, and gathering the lovely blonde tresses which hung loose and disheveled, she hastened to twist them into some semblance of order. "No!" she repeated, with emphasis, her voice, at first weak and tremulous, growing stronger and stronger as she spoke. "This must end. Between us, Captain Dantan — between us there are barriers which can never be overcome. Whatever harm I may have done, you at least shall never reproach me with your ruin. No!" she repeated, with decision, repelling the effort of the young man to regain possession of her hand — "no; this is over for ever."

      "Oh, Valiska, do not speak thus! Do not repulse me, when at last I have learned to read my heart correctly! What is all the world to me without your love? Why should we allow these foolish ties which bind us together to separate souls created for one another. To me you are ——"

      "Death!"

      The young man shuddered at the strangely melancholy emphasis with which she spoke the sad word.

      "Death!" repeated Valiska, scarcely conscious of the effect of her words. "I am a upas-tree, under whose branches it is death to lie; but such shall never be your fate. There, Captain Dantan, rise, I beseech you. We must put an end to this folly."

      Even while she spoke, a strange and sudden change came over the young girl; her determination and courage vanished as if by magic; she shrank down, cowering and terrified, hiding her face in her hands.

      Astonished at this abrupt change in his companion's manner, Henri involuntarily glanced toward the doorway.

      A being stood in the entrance, hideous and frightful as one of the fabled Furies. It was the woman whose sudden appearance in the wood had been the cause of Valiska's accident.

      A closer view made more apparent the wildness of this creature's aspect.

      The face, scorched and browned by the sun, was furrowed and seamed with wrinkles. The thick and projecting eyebrows overhung a pair of black eyes, deep-set in their sockets — eyes that sparkled with the ferocity of a hungry beast. The lower part of the face was sharp and pointed, and the large and thin-lipped mouth was almost entirely destitute of teeth.

      A mass of coarse white hair fluttered around her shoulders in tangled and disordered meshes — the gaunt, emaciated form, made more striking the height of this woman.

      Her costume was ragged and filthy in the extreme, and through the rents and gapes in the tattered skirt the brown and naked skin was visible.

      She stood there in silence, devouring with her burning glances the group around the pallet.

      Even the firm heart of the young soldier was not proof against the venomous fury which darted from those wild, black eyes.

      Not a sound broke the stillness, save the deep and oppressed breathing of Valiska, and the monotonous chatter of the crazy girl, who, unmoved by all that was taking place around her, never ceased murmuring to herself that strange refrain —

      "Pretty, pretty, pretty!"

      The little child, too, had crawled into the room, and was tugging at the maniac's frock, and sobbing in a suppressed and frightened manner at its failure to attract attention.

      This sight seemed to increase the evident fury which raged in the old woman's breast.

      "Miserable wretch!" she cried, in a deep and hollow voice, "will you lie there groveling at the feet of the infamous creature who has made you the shameful and degraded being that you are? Up, up, I say, if you would not have me tear you to pieces with my hands!" and the lean and brown talons worked convulsively, as if already they were clutching the throat of her victim.

      The child, alarmed by the loud and angry voice, crawled closer to the girl, and concealed its face in her lap, while she, poor half-witted creature, unaware or heedless of the threats leveled at her, gazed with a silly and unmeaning smile on the basilisk eyes which devoured her.

      "Ah, ha, Mimi!" she cried, in her shrill, strident voice. "Did you see him? Was he looking for Delphine? And, where, oh, where are the flowers that he always sent me the pretty flowers, the pretty flowers?"

      These incoherent words appeared to enrage the old woman past all control of reason.

      With an execration which sounded like the growl of a wild beast, she sprang forward, and would undoubtedly have inflicted some fatal injury on the helpless object of her ire, had not Dantan thrown himself between them, and caught her by the arm.

      "Wretched woman!" cried Captain Dantan. "What would you do — what do you mean?"

      "What would I do?" replied the woman, who, finding all her efforts to release herself unavailing, ceased to struggle. "What would I do? Kill her — kill the miserable thing who has brought this shame upon an honest family! What do I mean? Do you see that girl crouching there in the dust, like the degraded creature she is? Do you know to whom I owe it that the last of my flesh and blood is an outcast — an idiot? I'll tell you," she continued, speaking with suppressed ferocity, "I owe it to that white witch, to that sorceress, who weaves a web out of her yellow hair to entrap silly and unsuspecting men! Do you see how she hides herself? Ah, ha! but she cannot hide herself from le bon Dieu — curse her, curse her!"

      She pointed with her lean brown forefinger at Valiska, and at the shrinking girl hurled her curses as if they were thunderbolts.

      "Hag! How dare you speak in that way of mademoiselle?" cried Henri.

      And excited beyond all measure by this foul abuse, Henri Dantan shook with all his strength the gaunt form of the wretched being.

      "Oh, yes; I know, I understand," muttered the woman, with sarcastic emphasis. "We are dust, and should not speak. If mademoiselle chooses to put her little feet upon us, we are not good enough. How much better then is she — how much better is she than my poor, poor grandchild — my poor Delphine? — she who would have sold herself to a vile wretch for his gold, had not the vengeance of God destroyed the miserable scoundrel, and who is now equally ready to sell herself to another blinded idiot for that gold which she covets beyond honor — beyond everything! Ah, ha! What better is she, I say, than my poor grandchild — my unhappy Delphine? See! She dares not look me in the face."

      For a moment it was true. Valiska, overcome and abashed by the torrent of abuse poured upon her, hid her face in the coarse blanket of the pallet; but the very violence of the language heaped upon her, served as a charm to recall the young girl to herself.

      She arose, pale as death, but calm and composed, and hurriedly approaching Captain Dantan's side, she seized the uplifted arm of the young man, who, enraged beyond measure at the insults to his companion, was about, in the extremity of his anger, to strike the old woman to the earth.

      "No, Henri," she cried; "do not strike her! Can you not see that she is crazy, and knows not what she says?" Then turning, she addressed herself to the Fury, who gnashed her teeth and struggled, with all her strength to release herself from Captain Dantan's hands. "Mother," she said, in a soft, soothing tone — "mother, as God is my judge, I have never knowingly done anything to injure either you or your grandchild."

      "Mother!" shrieked Mère Simon. "Wretch! do you dare call me mother? Will you deny, harlot, that you were about to sell yourself to that scoundrel Marrois, if a good God had not punished with an awful death the foul wrong that villain inflicted on my poor Delphine? Will you dare to say you were not the promised wife of Monsieur Pierre?"

      "Merciful Heaven!" cried Henri Dantan, recoiling with astonishment at these words. "Marrois's wife! This cannot, cannot be true! Oh, for God's sake, Valiska, say it is not true!"

      The expression of anguish in the young man's eyes reduced Valiska for a moment to despair. She tottered, and seemed about to fall; but collecting herself by a violent exertion of will, she answered, in a low, husky voice, barely audible:

      "Oh, Henri, to you I cannot lie! The woman speaks the truth; but ——"

      The effort to control herself was beyond her power. She trembled, and with a low moan of agony sank down upon the little couch, and burying her face in her hands, broke into a storm of sobs.

      "Listen, monsieur!" hissed the old woman. "You shall judge between us. You see mademoiselle does not deny."

      She paused, as if to arrange her ideas, and then went on:

      "Ah, we poor people, we have hearts, too — hearts to break, though it's little you rich folks think of that. Yes; you shall hear. My story is a common one; but it may do a fine young gentleman like you good to hear it. See now, monsieur; they all know me here in Abois. Yes, yes! I have lived here many years. Here my poor Père Simon died, and all my children — all except my Clemence. Well, I must not tire you, monsieur. I thought my Clemence would stay with me, for she was not strong, but weak and sickly. But, no; Clemence was like the rest, and when Jean Courtois came along, she left her old mother, and went away to live with her husband, far, far from Abois.

      "I never saw her again alive; I never heard of her until Jean came back to tell me my daughter was dead. The poor fellow was broken-hearted; he was going to America; would I take care of Delphine, my little grandchild? Would I? You can believe, monsieur, I had but one answer for that. Yes!

      "After the good man was gone I went to work hard. I had my place here, and I raised vegetables, and sold them in Abois, and my little grandchild and I lived.

      "But after a time I grew proud. I did not want my little girl to grow up a common peasant. So one fine day I sent the child away to a convent of the Ursuline Sisters yonder in the north. It was hard to part; but I said to myself it was good for the child.

      "And now I had to work hard indeed to pay the Sisters — and then came the war, and all that trouble; and then he came. But, no; I must not speak of that.

      "Ah, it was hard work! And the years passed slow — how slow! But I felt paid for all, when at last my Delphine came back, well and strong and pretty as the finest flower in my garden."

      The old woman stopped to wipe away a tear from the wrinkled face.

      "Pretty Delphine, pretty Delphine!" muttered the crazy girl, laughing to herself a low, silly laugh; "pretty, pretty, pretty Delphine!"

      "Do not heed her, monsieur," said the old woman, as she noticed the expression of pity with which the young man regarded the crouching figure; "she knows not what she says. Listen to me. For a time my Delphine was gay, gay as a bird. She sang and danced about the garden; but after a time I saw a change. My girl grew dull. I questioned her. At first she would not answer; but at last it came out. She did not like the cottage; she wanted to go live in town. Ah, fool that I was, I let her go! Alas! I thought it was for the child's happiness. I found a place for her with a kind lady — Madame Robert. Delphine was to mind the shop, and live there with madame and her daughter Pauline.

      "Everything was right now; and when my girl came to the cottage on fête days and Sundays, she was as lively as a cricket.

      "And then — and then, just when I thought everything was right, there came a terrible blow. My Delphine failed to come to the cottage as usual, and when I went to inquire for her, I heard — my God! — she was gone — had fled — Madame Robert said to hide her disgrace.

      "I think I must have gone mad. I don't know what followed. Months went by, and I heard nothing of Delphine. I did nothing but sit and wait for her to come. I worked no longer. I had no one to work for, and little by little my cottage and garden grew to be the ruin you see it; and then, just when I had given up all hope, Heaven sent me back my girl." The old woman heaved a deep sigh, and pointing to the crazy girl, she said, with bitter irony: "Sent my girl back to me as you see her there. How long it took me to make out from her piteous babble the story of her wrongs I cannot tell you, but at last I understood that it was to the kind Monsieur Marrois I owed my child's ruin.

      "Again I was mad. I went to Madame Robert with my story. She would not hear me. Monsieur Marrois was a good, honest gentleman, and my girl a low, depraved wretch.

      "I went to the police. They laughed at me. Monsieur Marrois was a wealthy man, and I a poor peasant. I followed Monsieur Pierre around; I dogged his foot steps, and then he threatened to have me imprisoned. He was to be married to that white witch there, and if I bothered him he would have me locked up. I came here, and I cursed him, and I cursed her, the cause of all my misery. And now, monsieur," cried the woman, her eyes blazing with fury — "and now, I say again, may the flames of hell consume her! May she burn everlasting! May she ——"

      "Oh, no, no!" shrieked Valiska, horrified at the awful words; "no, no, do not curse me. Have pity upon me, for I am miserable. Or, yes — kill me if you wish it, kill me!" continued the young girl, falling on her knees in front of her infuriated enemy.

      At this moment, and while Herni was laboring to over-master the hag, the sound of many voices calling his name and that of Mademoiselle Zortichoff, mingled with the dull tread of horses' hoofs upon the soft ground, resounded from the outside of the building, and before Valiska could recover herself a number of gentlemen, with Colonel Courcelles and Aristide at their head, entered the cottage.

      A universal exclamation of surprise broke from all at the strange scene, and pressing forward, they surrounded Valiska, eagerly importuning with questions about the accident, and congratulations upon her lucky escape from injury — questions and congratulations to which Mademoiselle Valiska, who had now recovered complete control of her faculties, hastened to respond to with a grateful expression of thanks for the interest displayed in her behalf.

      Abashed and awed by the appearance of so many strangers, the maniac sat staring from one to the other in silent and speechless bewilderment, whilst the old woman, a living statue of suppressed rage, stood motionless in a corner of the room.

      Aristide had been the first to offer his congratulations, and making way for the others, he was now amusing himself with a survey of the ruined and dilapidated apartment, and its poverty-stricken and miserable owners.

      He alone, of all the gentlemen, read aright the war of passions imprinted on the distorted and haggard visage of the old woman, and the sorrow and misfortune in the pinched and emaciated countenance of the girl; he turned away with a sigh, and resumed his examination of the room. An inventory of its contents was soon made, for with the exception of the pallet, table, and chest of drawers, there was absolutely nothing — nothing except a rude, unframed picture which hung immediately above the chimney-piece, just opposite the spot on which he stood.

      It was a coarse and ancient lithograph, whose gaudy colors had been dimmed by time, and blackened by the smoke of the wood-fire. The theme was the miraculous combat between St. George and the Dragon. The saint, in vivid green armor, upon a fiery and excited steed, was furiously engaged with a dark-brown creature, a cross between the serpent and some imaginary and fabulous monster. Instead of a sphere or sword, the champion was armed with an immense scarlet cross, with which he was inflicting fearful gashes in the body of his hideous adversary, gashes from which the blood flowed in crimson rivers.

      Whilst examining this work of art, Aristide had been idly punching the plastered wall with the butt-end of his riding-whip. From a mental reverie, in which he was trying to estimate what must be the intellectual development of the creatures who could be satisfied with such a production as this, he was suddenly aroused by the crash of a large piece of plaster, which, detached by his blows, fell crumbling to the floor; he turned to examine the ruin which he had caused.

      The wall at this side of the room was greatly defaced, and damaged at a height of about two feet from the floor. There was a long irregular fissure, which had apparently been caused by a bed, or some other article of furniture. Besides this there were other gaps and breaks, in addition to the one which had just resulted from his carelessness. What was it that, as he bent over examining the ruin he had wrought — what was it that suddenly paralyzed his very faculties, petrifying him with amazement and surprise? Could he trust his own eyes, or could it be that his power of vision was failing? No; without doubt he saw, and saw correctly, marks upon the wall, which at first sight seemed unmeaning scratches, but were now plainly letters; and not only letters, but letters forming coherent and distinct words — two names and a portion of the third: "Marrois, Robert, Dan——"

---

CHAPTER XXVII.

      THE return to Abois was marked by a silence that strongly contrasted with the merriment and gayety with which the party had left the town. The ladies had not yet recovered from the alarm which had taken possession of them when Valiska's riderless horse had dashed furiously by, their first warning of the accident that had happened to their companion.

      The young officers were cursing their stars that they had not had the good fortune to be in Henri Dantan's place, and wondering to themselves why that gentleman should seem so dull and dispirited after his good luck. Mademoiselle Valiska was melancholy and distraite, and when pressed, acknowledged that she had been considerably shaken by her fall.

      As for Vis, he was in a cloud; the extraordinary discovery which he had just made in such a singular manner had almost overpowered him. "Was he never to be able to extricate himself from this tangle into which chance had thrown him? What connection could there be between those names scrawled on the wall of that miserable cabin and the terrible crime which had convulsed the town of Abois with horror? — or, rather, was there any connection at all? That third and incomplete word could be nothing but the name Dantan. What was it that Léon had said to him in that strange interview of a few days before? — 'If I am right, we are not done with this avenging visitation. Another victim will fall, another victim will bear upon his forehead that fatal sign, and that victim will be myself!"

      Could these words have been prophetic? But who then could have written this list, headed by the names of those unfortunates who had already met their fate at the hands of this mysterious and dreadful assassin? He must know the value of his discovery at once, and who so likely to estimate this properly as the police-agent, Guimand? He would see the man at once. But was it not his duty to speak first to Léon? Perhaps the mayor's safety might be imperiled if he kept this secret to him self. And then, too, Dantan would doubtless be able to give him full information as to the owners of the cottage: that wild and ferocious woman, whose eyes blazed with all the fury of a Medusa, and her caged and miserable companion. Yes, without doubt he must speak to Monsieur le Maire.

      Aristide's deliberations were cut short by the arrival of the equestrian party at the outskirts of the town. Mentally registering his determination to speak to Monsieur Dantan at the earliest moment, he banished the affair from his mind, at least for the time, and busied himself in trying to remove the bad impression which his silence had produced upon the young lady at whose side he had been riding — an impression which resolved itself into a declaration made with emphatic sincerity — that Monsieur Vis was a perfect stupide.

      As they rode through the streets of the town the party gradually melted away, until, when they reached the residence of the mayor, Madame d'Aubrac and Henriette, with Aristide and Captain Dantan, alone remained.

      "Say, my dear!" called the baroness, as Henri assisted his cousin to dismount, "this concert — are we to go?"

      "What a question, Angelique! You know well enough that Valiska is to take part in it, and my uncle would resent our absence as a personal slight."

      "In that case, ma chère, I must say adieu, if I am to be ready in time;" and signing to Aristide to follow her, madame whipped up her horse and went off at a brisk gallop.

      Two hours later, Vis and Captain Dantan, seated alone in the little music-room, were patiently awaiting their liege ladies, who, in the sacred privacy of Henriette's chamber, were busily engaged in putting the finishing touches to their toilets — toilets with which they proposed to startle the innocent and unsophisticated citizens of Abois.

      "See here, my friend," said Vis, after the gentlemen had sat for some time in silence. "I want a talk with you, and I consider myself very lucky to have obtained this chance. You know that I pride myself on being something of a physiognomist. The moment I entered that dilapidated hut I saw from the expression of your face and that of mademoiselle that something serious had taken place. That strange old woman and her half-witted daughter — I hope, Henri, you will not believe me actuated by idle curiosity when I say that I am very anxious to know what really did take place at that interview. But, there!" he continued, as Dantan averted his face — "perhaps I am asking more than you would be willing to grant. I assure you that grave and serious reasons alone prompted the request; and our old friendship ——"

      "Oh, it's not that," replied Henri, facing the other and speaking in a voice whose tremor betrayed the agitation he was struggling to control — "it's not that. I am not unwilling to put this trust in your friendship. But it's a very hard thing for a man to confess that he has made a fool of himself; a most outrageous, egregious fool!" he continued, now speaking with animation. "A fool, Aristide, whose folly might have proved his ruin, had it not been for the courage and self-sacrifice of that noble girl."

      "Ah!"

      "It is true. How much I am indebted to Mademoiselle Zortichoff I am only just beginning to realize. But listen; you shall hear the whole story — a strange story, indeed."

      For much of this narrative Aristide was already prepared. Valiska's love for his friend had long been known to him, and his interview with the police agent had made him aware of Mademoiselle Zortichoff's connection with Pierre Marrois.

      He was, therefore, by no means astonished, as Henri poured forth with volubility this portion of his story. But when his friend came to relate the singular conduct of the old woman, her wild accusations against Valiska, and the sad story of her helpless and crazed grandchild, Vis could not keep back the exclamation wrung from him by this corroboration of his suspicion that some strange connection existed between these miserable peasants and the crimes which had so terrified the townfolk.

      His mind was made up in a moment. He must see Léon Dantan. The mayor alone could clear up this mystery.

      He could scarcely wait for the termination of Henri's narrative. Indeed, he appeared almost unconscious when that termination was reached, and but poorly repaid the confidence of his friend, failing entirely to display the sympathy which the other had expected.

      "Does Monsieur le Maire attend the concert?" he inquired, with a suddenness which surprised his friend.

      "Why of course! Do you suppose that he would miss the chance of applauding Mademoiselle Zortichoff? I left him just now busily engaged in his study."

      "That is the room at the head of the stairs, is it not? Excuse me, Henri. I must have a word with your uncle. Try and detain the ladies until my return, if I should be a few moments late."

      And without another word Aristide left the room.

      The mayor's study, as has been said, was a small apartment near the head of the main stairway. Its owner, seated at an escritoire was busily engaged in assorting a heap of official documents, when Aristide, dispensing with the formality of knocking, abruptly entered the room.

      Léon looked up with some surprise at this intrusion; but a single glance at Vis's excited face satisfied him that weighty reasons had occasioned this visit.

      Without any prelude, Aristide plunged at once into the affair which was absorbing his whole mind.

      "Monsieur le Maire," he brusquely demanded, "do you know Delphine Simon and her grandmother?"

      This question produced a startling effect. Monsieur Dantan's face became flushed and red. He hesitated a moment, and then replied:

      "Certainly. But why do you ask me this question?"

      "Because I this evening, in the hut of the old woman, made a discovery which I think may throw a light upon the affair in which we have both been so deeply interested.

      "Sit down, monsieur, sit down, and tell me what you mean."

      Vis obeyed, and in the fewest words possible related the account of the evening's incidents, the strange conduct of the peasant woman, the incoherent words of the granddaughter, which yet contained in them much of seeming importance, and lastly, the names which he himself had found scratched upon the plastered wall of the cottage.

      He had expected some evidence of astonishment on the part of his hearer, but was entirely unprepared for the startling effect produced by his words.

      Monsieur Dantan became pale as death. In a moment the damp and cold perspiration stood in beads upon his forehead, and his convulsed and quivering features showed the conflict that was taking place within him.

      His hands clutched nervously at the papers scattered upon the desk, and his whole frame trembled so violently, that Aristide was about to call for assistance, when the excited man, suddenly recovering control of himself, struck a blow upon the desk, and cried, in a voice choked by the emotion of an overpowering discovery.

      "Mon Dieu! I see it! He was not dead!"

      The speaker paused, and with his hand pressed to his forehead stood lost in gloomy contemplation.

      Aristide awaited with anxious and expectant wonder the dénouement which he felt was now close at hand — the mystery so long vailed in obscurity was at last to be solved.

      With breathless anxiety, he watched the efforts which the mayor was making to trace out the chain of thought. Alas! he was doomed to disappointment.

      At the very moment Léon was again about to speak, the door of the study was thrown open, and Henri entered.

      "Hallo!" exclaimed the captain. "Have you any idea how late it is? There are two excited creatures in the music-room, whose stock of patience is nearly exhausted. I say, uncle, do you go with us?"

      "No; not to-night," replied the mayor, averting his face, to conceal his emotion from Henri; "not to-night. I have business of importance which will keep me up to a late hour. You must bear my excuses to mademoiselle, and try to make her understand that nothing but the most important affairs could have forced me to deny myself the pleasure of listening to her music."

      "In that case, Aristide, we had better be going at once."

      Léon followed the young men to the door, and took advantage of the last moment to grasp Aristide by the arm, and whisper in his ear:

      "Say nothing of this to any one, monsieur. At least for to-night. To-morrow all Abois shall know the name of this hated assassin."

      He pressed the hand which he held in his own, as if to emphasize the warning, and then, with a muttered "Bon soir," closed the door, and Aristide heard the key turn in the lock.

*       *       *       *       *      *

      The large hall of the Hotel de Ville had been chosen for the musical entertainment which was to enable the talent of Abois to display itself for the edification of admiring friends.

      The cause was a charitable one, and the only difficulty experienced had been the unpleasant task of refusing two-thirds of the volunteers, eager to do something in the cause of charity, and at the same time earn a share of public applause.

      The room was already well crowded when our friends made their appearance, and it was with considerable difficulty that chairs were obtained for the ladies.

      The night was exceedingly warm and sultry, and the flags and floral decorations added not a little to this heat; but the audience was enthusiastic and self-forgetful.

      Amid a vigorous plying of many-colored fans, they, with stoical heroism, simmered and boiled in the oppressive and almost overpowering temperature.

      This enthusiasm not only lasted through the overture and the first two or three numbers, but grew and increased with each performance, until, with the appearance of Mademoiselle Zortichoff, it swelled into a tumult of applause.

      The young lady's talent was well known and fully recognized, and her new position as the fiancée of the Mayor of Abois greatly enhanced her popularity.

      The thunder of approbation that greeted her perfect rendition of one of Mendelsohn's sonatas was so loud and prolonged, that it was with extreme difficulty Madame d'Aubrac, who had been laboring for some time to attract Aristide's attention, succeeded in making him understand that Henriette had grown very faint, and must leave the place at once.

      Taking advantage of the confusion, the young men succeeded in extricating Mademoiselle Rousel from the crowd, and supporting her to the outer door. The cool fresh air produced an immediate improvement; but the baroness declared "that it was out of the question to think of returning to that over again."

      It was vain for Henriette to protest against this decision. The little lady was in the habit of being obeyed. Her commands were issued in an emphatic voice. Henriette was to go home and to bed at once, or the dear girl would be sick. As a compensation, she, Angelique, would offer the pleasure of her society. The gentlemen, if they saw fit, might return to the concert — that is, if they found the music a sufficient reward for stewing for a couple of hours in that heated atmosphere.

      The royal ukase was as usual unquestioned, and upon reaching the mayor's, neither of the ladies would listen for a moment to their escorts renouncing the balance of the concert for their sakes.

      "No, no; go!" they both cried, with a merry laugh, as they closed the door; "go and enjoy yourself as much as possible. We are heartily glad to be rid of you."

      "Look here, Aristide," said Henri, stopping in front of the Hotel de Ville, "if you don't mind, I think I'll sit down and smoke a cigar. I confess to you, my friend, the local talent does not impress me favorably. I am afraid you Parisians have ruined my taste. Really, if it were not for that last sonata of Mademoiselle Valiska, I should imitate the wisdom of Madame d'Aubrac, and go to bed at once. But I can't make up my mind to lose that 'morceau.' See how brightly the moon is shining. Do you remember those nights when we were walking the ramparts of Paris, and watching the fires of 'Messieurs les Prussiens' blazing in every direction around us?"

      Aristide was only too glad to talk. Thought involved for him a gloomy retrospection from which he was happy to extricate himself.

      Lighting their cigars and seating themselves upon the stone step, they were soon lost in reminiscences of the past. The comrades-in-arms became oblivious to the rapid passage of time, until aroused by loud and vociferous bursts of applause from within the hall.

      "That must be for Mademoiselle Valiska," said Henri, springing to his feet, and pitching the stump of his cigar into the street. "Come, Aristide; do not let us lose a note of her music."

      This time, unencumbered by their female companions, the young men were able to make their way to a point quite close to the stage.

      Dantan had not been mistaken in his surmise. Mademoiselle Zortichoff was already seated at the piano, and beginning the prelude to one of Rubinstein's creations. Note by note the beautiful melody rose beneath the soul-moving touch of her slender fingers, charming and entrancing the spellbound listeners, who hung in eager and silent rapture.

      The girl seemed inspired with her own music, and oblivious to all the eyes concentrated upon her. Suddenly, in the midst of one of the most beautiful passages, the musician paused, gazed for one moment with a wild and distracted stare at the open doorway of the hall, and then, without any further warning, fell forward upon the piano.

      The suddenness of the occurrence prevented any immediate offer of assistance. Henri was about to spring upon the stage, when he felt himself detained by a strong hand laid upon his shoulder. He turned to shake it off, and to his amazement beheld the tall form of Dupont, the Chief of Police.

      "Excuse me, Monsieur le Capitaine," said the chef, bending forward and whispering in the young man's ear. "You must come with me at once."

      "In a moment, Dupont — in a moment!" he replied, struggling to shake off the powerful grasp. "You perceive mademoiselle has fainted" — pointing to the crowd that was now collecting around the piano. "Let me see her for a moment, and then ——"

      "Not a moment," said the stern voice of the official. "A terrible tragedy has occurred. Monsieur le Maire has been murdered!"

---

CHAPTER XXVIII.

      HOW THE distance between the Hotel de Ville and the mayor's residence was accomplished, neither of the young men could ever satisfactorily explain. Henri had retained enough presence of mind to whisper the dreadful tidings to Aristide, who was little less alarmed than his friend.

      In fact, Vis was so completely overcome by this intelligence, which realized all the sad prophecies of Monsieur Léon, that it was some time before he was able to collect his scattered senses, and to remember that there had been other persons in the mayor's house besides the unfortunate gentleman himself.

      To Vis's faltering and hesitating question as to the safety of the ladies, Dupont replied that Monsieur Dantan had been the only victim, and that both the ladies were unharmed.

      "Sacre bleu! monsieur. That little baroness is a big card. Upon my word, she has the courage of a man, and it is entirely due to her bravery that both she and Mademoiselle Henriette did not share the fate of monsieur. Such courage in one so frail and delicate, ma foi, it is admirable."

      The enthusiasm of the chef was such, that he had not finished singing the praise of Madame d'Aubrac when the party reached their destination.

      It seemed only a few moments since they had left this house, and the mocking words of the baroness appeared to Vis to be still ringing in his ears; and yet in those few moments how much had taken place! Great care had been used to keep the affair a secret, and the same quiet and silence reigned about the front of the house as when the young men had last descended its steps.

      There was no appearance of any light in the many windows; but yet the door was opened immediately upon Dupont's knock by a gendarme, who whispered to his superior that Monsieur Claude Duquesnay had arrived, and was in the library.

      "That is well," replied the chief. "This way, gentlemen."

      The patter of their footsteps on the open floor sounded ghostly and hollow, as, following their guide, they passed up the unlighted hall, and ascending the broad staircase, finally reached the door of the little study in which Aristide had so lately pressed the hand of the man whose corpse he was now to look upon.

      Without any formality Dupont admitted them to the small apartment, dimly lighted by a shaded lamp upon the table.

      A number of gentlemen were assembled in the room, among whom Aristide recognized, in addition to the Juge d'Instruction, Monsieur Duquesnay, several others with whose faces he was familiar. They were talking in that low, suppressed tone which seems so indissolubly identified with the presence of the dead.

      There was little change in the appearance of the room; the escritoire was still covered with its pile of papers and letters, some of which had been scattered on the floor; with this exception, there was no evidence of any disturbance or disarrangement. The dark walnut chairs, with their covering of green morocco, stood in their accustomed positions, as did the large table and the other pieces of furniture; the pictures, and the statues on their brackets, all — all were as they had been when Aristide exchanged that last bon-soir with their ill-fated owner. He could scarcely subdue the shudder that ran through him as he crossed the threshold.

      Monsieur Claude advanced to meet them, and pressing Henri's hand sympathetically, led him to the couch on which lay the last remains of the murdered man.

      The dark-green covering of the sofa threw out in bold relief the pallid face. A stern frown was stamped upon the rigid features, and the whole countenance, indeed, indicated that the mayor had not fallen an unresisting victim.

      Had he not been prepared for the sight, Aristide would undoubtedly have been horrified to see the impression of that mysterious cross upon the brow of the dead, but Léon's own words had warned him to expect what he was now beholding.

      To Henri the shock was much greater. Entirely unaware of the revelations his uncle had made to Vis, this frightful sight, coming upon him without any warning, reduced him to speechless and trembling terror. He seemed not to hear the words of consolation whispered into his ear by the judge, but, numbed and bewildered, he stood staring, a statue of silent grief.

      Said Vis to himself, "So then after all the sword of Damocles has fallen"; and observing how vain were Monsieur Claude's efforts at consolation, he drew that gentleman aside, and begged from him an account of what had happened prior to their arrival.

      "The story was a short one. A passing gendarme had been alarmed by the sound of a woman's voice crying for help. Obtaining admission through the rear, and making his way up-stairs, the man came suddenly upon the body of Monsieur Dantan, stretched upon the floor of the hall, immediately in front of the open door of his study. A short examination convinced the gendarme that the mayor was dead, but so alarmed was he at the sight of that ill-omened mark upon the forehead, that it was some time before he thought of seeking for assistance. The cries for help were still repeated, and fearing a public excitement, he hastened to ascend to the flight above, and to assure the frightened ladies that there was no longer any danger. Having quieted their fears and begged them to be silent, the man hastened away to the office of the Chief de Police. Monsieur Dupont at once assembled a number of his men, and having sent messengers to warn the friends of Monsieur Dantan, immediately repaired to the house. Under the instructions of the chief the body was borne into the library and placed upon the sofa. This had scarcely been accomplished when Duquesnay and the other gentlemen arrived, amongst them Dr. Bulot. The examination was then made, and it was ascertained that the unfortunate gentleman had perished from a wound inflicted with a knife, which had pierced the heart, producing almost instant death. Duquesnay was the first to remember the nephew, and it was he who had sent Monsieur Dupont to warn the young soldier."

      "And the assassin?"

      "Not a trace, as usual. Not a trace."

      "But you have spoken with the ladies? Since the alarm came from them, is it not possible that they might have seen something?"

      "Indeed you are right! But I confess I have been so overcome by this sad occurrence, that I was really incapable of thought."

      "In that case, if you don't mind, I myself will speak to Madame d'Aubrac. I understand she is unharmed."

      "Dupont says it was she who gave the alarm, and is loud in her praise. You will find both madame and mademoiselle up-stairs, and I would take it as a favor if you would see them at once."

      "With great pleasure. I will go immediately."

      Having ascertained which room was occupied by the ladies, Aristide hurried thither and rapped timidly upon the panels of the door. A voice from within, which he recognized as that of madame, demanded "Who was there?" Upon giving his name the door was quickly opened, and Angelique threw herself into his arms.

      Whatever had been the courage displayed by the baroness, the little lady was now evidently well pleased to have a protector to cling to. She had undoubtedly been frightened, and well frightened, too, for all the old authority had disappeared, and it was a timid, trembling woman who clung so closely to the young man's neck and sobbed upon his breast.

      Madame was in want of consolation, and a great deal of it. Aristide hastened to try the effect of a kiss. The result was satisfactory, and led to a frequent repetition of the soothing remedy.

      Oh, what an ignominious position for a philosopher and stoic! Kissing and embracing with all the ardor of a foolish young lover!

      After a time the consolation proved effective, and Angelique growing calmer, at length found herself able to give Vis an account of the adventures of the night.

      "You remember, mon cher, my last words — that you might return to enjoy the rest of the concert. We were still laughing over this foolish jest of mine, when we reached the head of the stairs, and perceived a light still burning in Monsieur Dantan's study. Henriette knocked at the door. Monsieur Léon was greatly surprised to see us; he had been writing, and still held the pen in his hand. There was an air of preoccupation about him even while listening to his niece's account of her faintness, which I could not but notice. He expressed a regret that we should have been forced to return before the termination of the concert. I could see that he was anxious to return to his writing, and so hurried Henriette away. The door of the study was already closed and locked before we had ascended half way to our room.

      "'Uncle must be very busy this evening. I wonder what he can be at work upon,' Henriette said, as we entered her chamber and began our preparations for the night.

      "Whether the room was close or not I cannot remember, but very shortly after our entrance my friend began to complain of a return of the giddiness which she had experienced in the concert-hall. I bathed her forehead with cold water, but this failed to afford relief; it was then I recollected that I had left my flacon of sal-volatile in the music-room, and proposed to go at once in search of it. Henriette would not listen to my going alone, and followed me, in spite of my efforts to dissuade her.

      "I carried the candle. Henriette followed closely behind me. We descended to the lower floor, and passing along the unlighted hall, we reached the salon. The flickering light of my candle faintly illuminated the room, and it was some time before we could find the object of our search. Henriette was the first to perceive the flacon lying upon the piano, and started toward it. It was at this moment that my eyes turned in the direction of the large bow window which formed one side of the apartment. The thick curtains had been drawn back, and the silvery rays of the full moon poured in through the casement. It was a picture of pure and serene loveliness; and yet, as I gazed, on a sudden I felt a thrill of icy horror shoot through me, freezing the very blood in my veins.

      "For a moment I was incapable of speech or motion, paralyzed and helpless. I could scarcely trust the evidence of my own senses; and yet, if my eyes were to be relied upon, there, below the thick folds of the curtain, were plainly visible two feet in coarse, clumsy shoes — the feet of a man!

      "At once, as if by magic, all the danger of our situation rushed upon me; an inspiration from Heaven told me that this was the unknown murderer. How to warn Henriette was my first thought, for I felt satisfied that the man was watching us. I knew that the slightest act on my part which betrayed my knowledge of his presence would bring him upon us. How was I to warn Henriette? If I told her abruptly, her terror might prove our ruin. I was scarcely a moment in making up my mind.

      "Henriette had taken the candle from my hand on entering the room. With a laugh whose tremulousness I feared would betray my emotion, I sprang forward, and caught my friend by the arm. 'You are afraid of the dark, Henriette, you know you are,' and with a repetition of that feigned laughter, I bent down and blew out the light, at the same time passing my arm around her waist and hurrying her out of the room. 'Oh, you silly creature!' said Henriette, struggling against my efforts to drag her forward. 'What in the world is the matter with you?' I could not speak, I could only persevere in what seemed to me our only chance of safety; and we had reached the stairway, when, to my unutterable horror, I heard the sound of stealthy footsteps behind us. We were pursued!

      "Fear lent me tenfold strength, and almost lifting Henriette in my arms, I flew up the staircase. At last the assassin seemed conscious that I had discovered his presence, and throwing off all concealment, exchanged his catlike pace for a rapid and noisy run. I thought that all was over. There were many steps yet between us and safety — the open doorway of our room. Henriette, terrified, though unaware of the cause, hung heavy upon my arm. I could hear the deep breathing of our pursuer, as it seemed, close at hand. I groaned, and sinking down, gave myself up for lost.

      "At this moment the door of the study was thrown open, and Monsieur Léon appeared in the lighted entrance. He uttered a cry of astonishment and dismay. The murderer's foot was on the staircase; he turned, and before a second repetition of the cry was possible he had sprung upon Monsieur Dantan, and seized him by the throat. The struggle was short, but fierce and desperate. Scarcely a word was spoken. In the shadowy light the combatants were barely visible, but the face of that wretch, although I saw it for scarcely a moment, was branded upon my mind never to be forgotten. A frightful face, white and ghastly as that of a corpse, with eyes which shone with a phosphorescent light, and short, closely-cropped white hair, which stood up like the bristles of an infuriated beast.

      "How I sat there and watched this fight for life and death I cannot imagine, but my faculties seemed as clear as they are now. I can even remember some words that dropped from one of the combatant's lips: 'For his sake, for his sake, dog! Do you hear?'

      "I saw the blue flash of steel in the lamplight; I heard a deep hollow groan and the fall of a heavy body. The crisis had come.

      "Something whispered to me, 'Save yourself! Save yourself! I staggered to my feet, and raising Henriette in my arms, for the poor girl had fainted, I hurried up the stairs. It was a narrow escape; for our pursuer, throwing off all disguise, came clattering up the steps at full speed. It was a narrow escape indeed. His hand was on the knob of the door as I succeeded in shooting the bolt on the inner side, and, feeling for the time at least a sense of safety, sank down on the floor by the side of the motionless and unconscious body of my friend.

      "The strength which had upheld me for so long now abandoned me. I could hear the muttered execrations of the man as he struggled to break open the door. A dazed and bewildered sensation came over me, and then everything was a blank.

      "How long I lay in that fainting condition I do not know, but when I regained the use of my faculties, everything was as silent as death. I crawled to the window, and threw it open. The night-air completed my cure. The whole terrible scene which I had just passed through returned to me, and with it came the thought that the murderer might return to finish his work. If I could make the servants hear me! I called out at the top of my voice for help; and, thank God, my first cry was answered. I don't know what followed. I suppose I must have fainted again. Oh, it was terrible, terrible! I shall never forget that man's face — those gleaming eyes! Oh, Aristide, you must take me away from here at once. I would not live in this place for millions."

      Angelique here became quite hysterical. More consolation was evidently necessary, and this time the stoicism of the philosopher disappeared in the ardor of the lover, who had just recovered his pet lamb from the knife of the butcher.

      When Vis returned to the study some time afterward, he found Monsieur Duquesnay impatiently awaiting him.

      With breathless interest and many an exclamation of astonishment, the judge listened to Aristide's résumé of Madame d'Aubrac's story.

      "This is a most unfortunate affair!" he exclaimed, as Aristide terminated the narrative. "Not only the death of poor Léon, but his death at this moment; for, had he lived until to-morrow, I have reason to believe we should have fathomed the mystery which has so long perplexed us. See! look at this! It was found beside the body, and is stained with the poor fellow's blood."

      The object in question was a half-sheet of paper covered with writing. It was torn across the middle, and spotted in many places with blotches of blood.

      Drawing near to the shaded lamp, Aristide read the following in the handwriting of the dead man:

      The writing ceased at this point. The lower half of the sheet of paper had been roughly torn away.

      "He was writing this letter at the moment when he was surprised by the miserable assassin," said the judge, in a grave voice. "It was found beneath his body. That portion torn away was the work of the murderer."

---

CHAPTER XXIX.

      IT would be impossible to picture the excitement of the townpeople when the news of the mayor's death was made public. On this occasion there was no violent denunciations of official neglect; no sneers or sarcasms, leveled at the inefficiency of the police. People spoke with bated breath in whispers, and the assurance that the authorities possessed information which would undoubtedly lead to the discovery of the criminal failed to quiet the popular uneasiness.

      In an interview between Aristide and the Juge d'Instruction on the day after the mayor's death, the young man had explained in full all that had taken place between him and Léon, as well as the discoveries made in the cottage of Mère Simon.

      Duquesnay considered the matter of so much importance, that he had sent a gendarme immediately to bring the old woman before him. To all questions, however, she absolutely refused to reply, nor would she give the slightest information as to how those names came to be scratched on the wall of her house. She was sullen and reticent. The only thing that could be elicited from her was an angry declaration that Marrois was a miserable villain, and his death a just punishment for his wickedness.

      After exhausting every means to compel the woman to speak, without success, the judge was obliged to commit her to prison, Of course nothing could be elicited from the crazy girl, and she was released and allowed to return to her hovel, and there for the present the case rested, whilst the police, assisted by the agent Guimand and two of his confrères, who had arrived from Paris, were busily at work ferreting out the criminal.

      The horrors of that awful night had produced a serious effect upon Mademoiselle Rousel. She had been seized with a raging fever which had resulted in delirium, and of which the doctors spoke with grave and anxious faces.

      It was now that Angelique d'Aubrac came out in her true character. The brave little woman refused to leave the bedside of her friend, and night and day hung over the sufferer with a tender solicitude charming to behold. She had made all her preparations to return to Paris, but positively refused to move a step until she was able to take Henriette along with her. There she would be safe; there they did not murder people in that outrageous manner. But first her friend must be well. And so shutting herself up in the sick-room, she sought by her attention to effect this purpose as soon as possible.

      While the baroness was devoting herself to the niece, Aristide was equally as assiduous in his efforts to console the nephew. Henri was a prey to the deepest remorse. The remembrance of that interview with Valiska was almost unbearable, and he shuddered to think of his disloyalty to the man who had stood so long in the position of a father to him. Now that Léon was dead, he for the first time fully realized the extent of his guilt, and these painful recollections reduced him to despair.

      It was in vain that Aristide sought to console him by the insinuation that Mademoiselle Zortichoff was a coquette, who was only too ready to trifle with the hearts of men, and hence had really no right to complain, if she were sometimes paid back in her own coin. The philosopher even pretended to doubt the sudden display of affection on the part of the young girl, and was cruel enough to repeat the charge brought against the blonde by Madame d'Aubrac, but with little avail. It was impossible for Henri to doubt the truth of the love which he had read in every feature of that beautiful face — in the dewy tenderness of the soft gray eyes and the warmth of those thrilling kisses, whose perfumed sweetness still lingered in his recollection. No! In whatever else the girl might be false, he could not doubt the truth of her love for him. Self-contempt crushed him to the very earth, and he lacked the courage to reveal his weakness • to Henriette, and seek the forgiveness which he felt he so little deserved.

      At his request, and to quiet the young man's excitement, Vis had called two or three times at the cottage, but had failed to obtain admission. The only information he could elicit from the morose and growling guardian of the threshold was the declaration that mademoiselle was too unwell to see visitors.

      On the second day after the concert, the obsequies of Léon Dantan were held with a pomp and display such as Abois had never before witnessed. The houses, only a few days before gay with flags and banners, were hung with black draperies, and gloomy funereal hatchments adorned the doorways of the public buildings.

      Every one was eager to do honor to the memory of a man whose reputation for honesty and integrity had long been one of the proudest boasts of the townpeople. There was a strong feeling, too, enlisted in this mortuary tribute — a desire to express the universal execration felt by every one for this accursed murderer, whose remorseless hand had for the fourth time struck down one of the best and noblest of their citizens. Already three victims slept beneath the green turf of St. Jean, and now a fourth was to take his place beside them.

      For long years afterward, the memory of Monsieur Dantan's funeral was the bright particular remembrance of all the old gossips, and many an idle moment was spent over brooms and washtubs in discussing the magnificence of the Inteurement.

      A grand requiem Mass by Father Marteau, in the Church of Notre Dame de la Victoire, where the body had been lying in state since the fatal night. From thence the sad cortège marched in procession to the little cemetery. The catafalque was drawn by four horses, with long housings of black velvet, and both it and the casket were almost hidden from sight under the profusion of floral offerings heaped upon them. The sad strains of Weber's Funeral March swelled on the evening air from the band of the Hussars which headed the mournful procession. The orphans in their little pink blouses; the grave officials of the town; the citizens, women, and men, with myrtles and evergreens, filed along the streets, a solemn and melancholy train; while the church-bells tolled out a doleful requiem for the repose of the soul snatched so suddenly from its earthly dwelling — place to meet its great eternal Judge.

      So amid the tears and lamentations of friends, and the regret of all who had known him, the body of Léon Dantan was committed to its last resting-place, in the tomb where had reposed for hundreds of years the dust of his honored and respected ancestors.

      With the first indications of improved health the baroness began her efforts to induce Henriette to leave Abois, and return with her to Paris. This was a task by no means difficult to accomplish; the young girl was but too willing to accede to her friend's wishes; the fright which she had experienced on the night of her uncle's death was still unforgotten, and her greatest desire was to get as far away as possible from a place linked so indissolubly with such terrible memories.

      In addition to this, and as another inducement to her departure, came an order from the War Department, commanding a removal of the Hussars, some foolish men having written letters which, taken in connection with the recent crime, seemed to imply a distrust of the soldiers. Henri would be obliged to depart with his troops, and his cousin would be thus left entirely alone, should she continue to reside in Abois. She therefore willingly accepted Angelique's invitation, and immediately set about preparations for her departure.

      Henriette's first visit, when able to leave the house, had been to the unhappy fiancée of her uncle. The young girl, more fortunate than Vis, obtained admission to the house, and found her friend in a state of mournful apathy that moved her to the deepest pity; so much so, that whilst relating her plans the generous-hearted girl offered to sacrifice her proposed visit to Paris if Valiska would consent to come and share her home. This offer, though received with the deepest expressions of gratitude, was firmly and decidedly refused. Mademoiselle Zortichoff announced that she herself would, in a short time, return to her native town in Russia. "Her one desire was to remove as far as possible from this spot, in which she had passed the most miserable years of her life — years which she could never forget. Every arrangement had been made, and her stay in Abois was now a question of hours."

      "Poor girl," said Henriette, relating an account of her visit to the Baroness d'Aubrac. "Never in my life have I seen such complete dejection, such hopeless misery. Angelique, we have done Valiska an injustice. Surely she must have been deeply attached to my uncle to regret him so bitterly."

      Out of regard for her friend's feelings, madame suppressed the words that trembled on her lips, for she was a good hater, and the dislike and distrust which had rooted themselves in her breast when she first beheld Mademoiselle Zortichoff still remained as strong as ever.

      Aristide was, of course, to return to Paris with his lady-love. The hermit-life was at an end for ever. And as he sat in the salon of his cottage on the evening before the day appointed for the departure, he could not but feel a sense of sadness steal over him as he looked around the quiet room in which he had passed so many hours of peaceful enjoyment. The future loomed up bright and rosy, but the mind of the philosopher was filled with distrust of all earthly things, and a low, deep sigh confessed the doubts that crowded thick and fast upon him. When could he again hope for the isolation which he had enjoyed within the peaceful walls of the Hermitage, with no companion save his books and his cigars?

      Alas! philosophy and metaphysics had, as usual, fallen before the irresistible and wicked little god of love, and though happy in the assurance of Angelique's affection, there was, as has been said, a shade of doubt still lingering in the mind of the thinker. All his books had been packed up, his pictures and statues boxed away; the bare walls and empty shelves had not a little to do with the melancholy which had taken possession of him on this afternoon. From the depths of one of these fits of abstraction he was aroused by the entrance of his little housemaid, Jeanne, who came to inform him that a boy, who wished to see him on urgent business, was waiting below. With another and deeper sigh of regret, Vis arose and descended to the street.

      The messenger, a peasant lad, handed him a note; it was without envelope, merely a half-sheet of paper, hastily folded, and bearing his address in the hand-writing of a woman.

      He opened it with a slight expression of surprise, which deepened at the first glance into the wildest excitement.

      The note was short, and in the fewest words possible warned him that if he would save the life of his friend Captain Dantan, he must hasten without a moment's delay to the cottage of Mère Simon. There was no signature, and the writing was strange and unfamiliar. But the warning was plain, and after the tragic events of the last few months, Aristide felt that this was not to be trifled with. The only information he could obtain from the boy was the fact that the note had been handed him by a vailed lady.

      "Do you know the way to the cottage of Mère Simon?" he demanded.

      The lad replied in the affirmative.

      "Then this is for you, if you guide me there as quickly as possible."

      The glitter of the offered gold pieces sent the messenger off at a speed which sorely taxed all Aristide's powers to emulate.

(To be continued.)

      THE squalor and dilapidation which marked the hovel, of Mère Simon appeared unchanged, or, if anything, increased, as Henri, for the second time, found himself in front of the open gateway. The rank grass and tangled weeds grew still more luxuriantly in the little deserted garden, and the flowers which had been struggling so bravely for their lives had given up the conflict, and one by one had been crushed to death in the coils of their cruel destroyers.

      There was an air of gloom about the whole building, which sent a chill through the young man's breast as, alighting from his horse, he fastened the animal to the fence, and made his way to the entrance of the cottage; a sensation of awe, inexplicable, but none the less a reality; that chilling depression which, in the popular mind, is associated with a warning of approaching death.

      The rough bench upon which on that former occasion he had first seen Delphine Simon, was unoccupied; indeed, no one was visible about the place, but the front door stood wide open; and after a momentary hesitation on the threshold, the young man overcame his feeling of repugnance, and with a firm step entered the building.

      His first glance was toward the room which had been the scene of that painful interview with Valiska. The little apartment presented the same appearance as upon that but too-well-remembered occasion, except that a couple of chairs had been added to its meagre furniture, upon one of which a slender form, in a plain and sombre black dress, sat with a crossed hands upon her lap, in an attitude of anxious expectancy.

      At the sound of the first footfall the pale face was lifted, and the dark-gray eyes turned full upon the newcomer. The room was dim and shadowy, the tiny windows permitting only a few feeble rays of light to enter. Yet, even in this gloom, Henri could perceive the terrible change which a few short days had wrought in that beautiful countenance.

      A little pang of self-reproach choked back the words which struggled to his lips. The agitation of the lady was almost equal to his own. The slight figure trembled nervously, the face was averted, and the little hand which he took in his was burning hot.

      "Mademoiselle," he at length said, "you cannot imagine how painful this interview is to me. And yet I must thank you for this chance to obtain your pardon for my disgraceful conduct when last we met in this room."

      "Monsieur!" murmured the lady, in a low, melancholy voice.

      "Yes, mademoiselle. I feel that my conduct upon that occasion scarcely admits of forgiveness. And yet — and yet — your gentle and forgiving nature prompts me to throw myself at your feet, and seek the pardon I so little deserve."

      "But, oh! monsieur, you must not reproach yourself for all the wrong. Alas! my miserable folly, my wild infatuation! Oh, Captain Dantan! Tell me that I have not fallen so low in your estimation as to be beyond the reach of all redemption. I know that I have been weak, sinful, wicked if you will; but to you, at least, I have been true. My whole life lies at your feet, and even yet you can save me."

      All this was said with averted face, as if the girl feared to betray to her companion the full extent of the emotion that agitated her.

      The effect of the wild words upon Dantan was painful indeed. He had come to this interview to ask for pardon; he had come in obedience to a note from Valiska, begging him to see her for a last time, and now it was unpleasantly apparent that this was to be something more than a mere parting.

      Henri had fully recovered from the fit of passion which had spurred him to that mad declaration of love, and he had long ago recognized the folly of his act. He hesitated, and it was with considerable awkwardness that he at length spoke.

      "Mademoiselle," said he, "for God's sake do not speak in that way! Duty, honor, everything, combine to separate us."

      "But Monsieur Léon is dead," whispered the temptress, "and I am free."

      The words sent a shudder through Henri. A revulsion of feeling took place within him, and there was even a slight sternness in the tone of his voice when he replied:

      "Alas! that is too true. But my uncle's death can make no change in our situation; and forgive me, Mademoiselle Valiska, if I say that it is better for both of us that things should be as they are. I trust — I sincerely trust — that the day will come when you can look back upon this moment without a single regret. I assure you, if I thought it were otherwise, I should never forgive myself."

      "And you do not love me? — you have never loved me!"

      There was a tremor in her voice, a stifled sob, which seemed to tell the struggle the girl was making to control her feelings.

      "Mademoiselle, I beg of you, I entreat you, do not make my task harder to me than it is already."

      "But, oh, I cannot give you up! My happiness, my every hope of happiness — nay, my very life — is bound up in you! Oh, Henri, Henri, you will not reject me — you will not trample on the bleeding heart which lies at your feet?"

      "Mademoiselle, I beseech you, for Heaven's sake ——"

      "And for what would you sacrifice me? — for the cold affection of Henriette? Would you give up for the shadow, the mere phantom, of love, a devotion which knows no bounds? See! I will go on my knees to you. I will be your slave. I will — I will ——"

      "Mademoiselle, you are punishing me too severely for the indiscretion of a moment. Forgive me!" and taking the slender hand in his, he gently but firmly raised the cowering figure kneeling in supplication at his feet. "Forgive me," he said; "but from this moment all must be over between us. I cannot consent to break my vow to Henriette. I cannot — I cannot!"

      The sound of footsteps rapidly approaching the cottage put a stop to the young man's words. He paused, and looked inquiringly at his companion, A strange, a terrible change, had taken place in the lady's face. All softness, all tenderness, had passed away. The eyes were now blazing with fury; the cheeks, red with an angry flush. It was the countenance of a Megæra! "Miserable coward!" she cried, in a deep, suppressed tone, dashing the young man's hand from her with ferocious violence. "I thank God that you have made my task easier to me. Descendant of the murderer Dantan, your moments are numbered! Orloff! Carl!" she cried, raising her voice until it rang through the hut. "Here! here!"

      The words died upon the lips of the speaker. She recoiled in blank amazement from the open doorway. A woman stood in the entrance — a tall, slender figure, whose dark-gray robe enhanced the natural pallor of her countenance. Henri was as one paralyzed, scarcely able to credit the evidence of his own senses. Was he mad? Or was this a delusion — a phantom creation of his brain?

      No! The slight form, the beautiful face, could not be mistaken. It was Valiska Zortichoff.

      But who, then, was this other — so like, that he himself had been deceived? Who was this woman — this woman who had knelt at his feet — who had pleaded Valiska's cause with such depth of emotion? — this woman who now stood cowering and abashed? Again he almost felt as if the whole thing must be a dream — a wild, fantastic vision. He looked from one to the other. In every feature, in every turn of the form, the figures were identical. He grew confused, dizzy, and scarcely conscious of what was passing.

      For several moments the silence was oppressive. The two women stood staring at each other, mute and motionless. At length, with a firm step the newcomer entered the room, and placed herself by Dantan's side. This seemed to rouse the other from the spell which had inthralled her. The look of withering wrath which for one moment had devoured Henri again blazed with intensity.

      "Wretched creature!" she shrieked, in a voice hoarse from overpowering anger. "What would you do?"

      "Save the man I love!"

      The answer came in a firm, determined tone. The speaker stood calm and proud, facing the fury of the other with a look of unyielding courage which spoke the soul resolved to meet every danger.

      "False to your oath, Valiska! Again I ask you, What would you do?"

      "And I — I tell you, Wanda, that I will save the man I love, cost what it may. This life is mine. I have bought it with my love. You shall not touch him. Do you hear me? You shall not touch him!"

      The fixed, unalterable determination of the speaker, betrayed in every inflection of the voice, seemed to sting the other to a deeper fury.

      "And for this base hound, this descendant of a band of murderers, you would sacrifice your brother, your sister? For this infamous creature you would break the oath sworn on the body of your mother, whose untimely death you have pledged yourself to avenge?"

      "I will save him! Go, Wanda: there is yet time for escape!" The answer came cold and determined. "I tell you," continued the speaker, drawing up her slender form to its full height, and facing the fury of the other with stern composure, "I would break a thousand oaths rather than that you should shed one drop of his blood."

      The light of a matchless tenderness shone in the gray eyes; the whole face seemed transfigured.

      "But he does not love you, wretched girl. Even now he has spurned your love with merciless contempt. He can never be anything to you."

      "What do I care! I love him. Do you understand me? I love him!"

      "But you cannot save him!" cried Wanda, with a smile of diabolical joy, as, for the second time, the sound of heavy footsteps was heard in the outer hall, and the huge and ungainly figure of Orloff darkened the open doorway.

      The appearance of the old man might well have struck terror to the stoutest heart. His face was of a ghastly leaden hue, which made the deep-scarlet cicatrix of the wound more hideous than ever. His bloodshot eyes glowed in their cavernous recesses like coals of fire, and the scowl upon his distorted features was frightful beyond expression.

      "Orloff Ivanovich!" exclaimed Wanda, her voice trembling with excitement, "there stands the last descendant of the murderer of your master. There stands the son of that accursed villain whose cowardly hand struck down a wounded and helpless man. Foster-father of my mother, shall the vile wretch live to gloat over our suffering? Remember the oath! Set your foot upon the head of the serpent, and crush the viper beneath your heel! See, here is the very chamber in which you writhed with agony from the wound inflicted by those ruthless assassins. Here let the last of their descendants perish. Upon him, upon him, I say — strike and spare not!"

      The wretched woman had lashed the fury of her wrath to frenzy. The fire of insanity flashed from her eyes, and quivering emotion shook her slender form. She spoke now in Russian, with eager volubility, goading the old man to desperation.

      Suddenly, however, in the very midst of her furious words, when her excitement had reached its highest pitch, she paused — a strange, a terrible change stole over her features. In rapid succession the flushed face changed from an angry red to a ghastly and livid pallor; her eyes, swollen and distorted, seemed bursting from their sockets; the miserable woman staggered, and clutched her throat with both hands; the next instant the changing color had given place to a dull grayish hue. She gasped for breath; a stream of bright crimson blood gushed from her mouth; she tottered, threw up her arms, and with a low groan fell lifeless upon the floor.

      With the yell of an infuriated tiger, Orloff sprang forward, a long knife gleaming in his uplifted hand. Quick as was the old man's action, Valiska had guessed his purpose. Throwing herself upon Dantan's breast, with her arms clasped around his neck, she covered him with her body. The fatal blow descended, the knife was buried to the hilt in the tender young flesh.

      For a space she stood as if unconscious of the agony of that mortal wound; a pure, a severe tenderness beamed from her dark-gray eyes, and a slight smile parted her lips as she gazed with fond devotion on the young man for whom she had sacrificed her life.

      "Save yourself, Henri! save yourself, Henri!" murmured Valiska.

      The white eyelids closed, the soft arms relaxed their hold, and ere Henri could clasp the slender figure, she had fallen to the floor.

      "Madman, you have killed her!" shrieked the young man, as he closed with Orloff, seizing the hand which still held the bloody knife.

      The combat was a desperate one. The old man's strength taxed all Dantan's powers. They tugged and strained with panting breath and quivering muscles; the knife had fallen from Orloff's grasp, and he labored to hurl Henri to the earth. With horror the young man felt his strength deserting him. The huge hand of the giant was on his throat; he made a last, a mighty effort. It was successful. The massive body of his antagonist fell with a terrific crash, which shook the frail and dilapidated building. With a cry of joy Henri sprang upon the prostrate form.

---

CHAPTER XXXI.

      IT was almost dark when Aristide reached the hovel. The melancholy surroundings impressed him as deeply as they had Captain Dantan; but he did not pause to consider these emotions. Life and death hung on his footsteps, and he had come at such a rate of speed, that he was almost breathless from exhaustion when he made his way into the hut. What a sight met his eye! What a scene of weird and ghastly horror!

      Two motionless female forms lay stretched upon the bloodstained floor; and nearer to the doorway a fiend was struggling to hold down what seemed to him a monster from the very depths of hell — a maniac who gnashed and ground his teeth; whose blood-injected eyeballs glared and shone with the malignity of a fiend, and who struggled with a strength which threatened each moment to release him. Aristide hastened to Dantan's assistance.

      "Thanks, my friend, thanks," faltered the young man. "You are in time to save my life; but would to God you had been earlier, that you might have saved hers as well. Here; help me tie to this brute!"

      To the last Orloff resisted with all his strength. He was at length, however, secured, and his wrists and feet firmly bound with the handkerchiefs of the young men. Once satisfied of his utter powerlessness, the old man ceased all efforts to release himself, and lay silent and speechless, devouring with his eyes the frightful scene.

      "Henri," cried Aristide, "for God's sake tell me what has taken place?"

      "My friend, I cannot speak," replied Dantan. "Help me, I beseech you, to lift this poor girl."

      "What! Mademoiselle Zortichoff?" exclaimed Vis, with amazement, as he aided his friend to raise the recumbent figure and place it on the little pallet.

      "Yes, Aristide; it is to her I owe the preservation of my life."

      "But who, then — who, then — is this other? Merciful Heaven! what is this?" continued the speaker, as he turned the body, so that the set white features were visible in the last faint rays of light which stole in through the cottage-window.

      "See, see, Aristide!" cried Henri, who had been bending over the wounded girl. "See! Valiska is not dead! Perhaps there is yet hope. Yonder in that pitcher you will find water. Hasten with it, I entreat you!"

      In a dreamy, mechanical way, Vis obeyed. In helpless amazement, he stared from one to the other of those two faces, which seemed the duplicate of each other. In the growing darkness of the room the likeness appeared even more wonderful.

      "What was this? What was this?" the question revolved and revolved in his mind. "Was the solution to the mystery come at last? Was the dark to be made light?"

      "See, Aristide, see! She lives! she lives!"

      He turned to his friend. It was indeed true. The pale, beautiful face, was still ghastly in its pallor; but there was a fluttering of the eyelids, a quivering of the lips, which seemed to presage returning consciousness; and as Henri continued to bathe the forehead, these signs of coming life increased, until with a deep sigh the dark eyes opened.

      "Thank Heaven!" she murmured, in a voice so faint as to be barely audible — "thank Heaven, I was in time!"

      "Ah, Henri, I am dying. No; it is useless" — as the young man sought to speak — "no; it is useless. I know that I am dying; but, oh, it is sweet to die for you!"

      "Valiska, I entreat you!"

      "Yes, yes; I know you never loved me. But I, alas! — oh, why should I be ashamed to confess how fondly I have loved you? Soon — yes, very soon — you will have forgotten me entirely; you will be happy with Henriette. Would she have given her life to save you? What have I not done for your sake? For you I have violated the oath I took upon the body of my dead mother; for you I am a false and perjured wretch! Yes; what Wanda said was true; but, oh, do not think I reproach you! No; I glory in the sacrifice which I have made for your sake!"

      The excitement of the speaker caused the wound to bleed more rapidly. Henri bent forward, and strove with trembling hands to stanch the stream.

      "Vain, vain!" whispered the unfortunate girl, as she gazed with a feeble smile upon the handsome face bending over her with eager solicitude. "But, Henri, it is easy to die. See poor Wanda; she is at rest, and I, too, will soon lie here cold and still! Will you forget me entirely? There; do not weep. I am not worthy of your tears. Oh, no! I am a base, guilty creature, not fit for you to touch. Do you remember what that old woman said? Alas! it was true. I was the affianced wife of Pierre Marrois. I was the fatal bait that lured the wretched man to his destruction. I was false to him, false to your uncle, false to Henriette; but to you — to you, Henri, I was true. And now I grow weaker and weaker, and there is yet much to tell; so far I have saved you, but your life is still in danger. There is another bound by that frightful oath — another sworn to seek your death. Here; come closer, closer!"

      She paused, closed her eyes, and for a space lay silent and speechless. Dantan drew the head of the sufferer higher on his breast, and Vis again bathed her forehead, now cold with the clammy dews of death. At length strength returned, and again Valiska reopened her eyes. Her voice was so weak that Vis was obliged to draw nearer to catch the feebly uttered words.

      "That evening at the cottage — ah, poor little cottage! I shall never see it again. Do you remember Orloff's story — the sad history of my unfortunate parents? Much of it was true; but much, much more, was false — a lie, told only to deceive. My mother was a Russian lady; but my father was Count Paul Eidlesdorf, a German, who held a high rank in the Russian army. When war broke out between France and Germany, my father left the service of the Czar, and came to offer his sword to the Fatherland. He was placed in command of a regiment of Uhlans, and my mother's foster-father, Orloff, served with him in the same troop. You remember the old man's narrative? How, after escaping many dangers in one of the most fierce and desperate skirmishes, my father and he were left for dead upon the field? Do you understand now where was that skirmish? 'Twas here — here, almost in sight of Abois! When consciousness returned to Ivanovich, and he sought assistance for his wounded master, he was captured by five men, whose uniform should have been a guarantee of their honor, for they were volunteer patriots. But, no; these men, who should have respected and pitied a wounded and helpless man, basely murdered the victim whom Fate had thrown into their hands — degraded the soldier by treating him as the foulest and most guilty of malefactors. These merciless fiends, without feeling and without remorse, staining with infamy the uniform which they wore, basely slew those with whom they should have been most tender, the helpless and the wounded. "You have heard from Orloff's lips the account of that terrible scene, and I will say no more. When the old man recovered consciousness, where think you he found himself — where? Here in this room. Yes; here it was, thanks to Mère Simon, that his life was preserved. For weeks and months he tossed in delirium on this very pallet upon which I am now dying, and it was here that he swore an oath of vengeance against his master's murderers. The faces of those five men had never been forgotten, and when able to move, his first task was to discover the names of the assassins. This was accomplished with safety, and the fatal list was scratched upon the wall of this room. Ah, do you know what were those names? Pierre Marrois, Victor Robert, Léon Dantan, Alphonse Rousel and George Dantan."

      "Oh, God!" murmured Henri, in a voice of agony; "my father, my uncle! And I — I never knew. Oh, Aristide, this is frightful! My father a murderer! Would to God that I had died before I heard this." The young man buried his face in his hands and groaned aloud in the agony of this frightful discovery. "Oh, forgive me; forgive me for the pain I have caused you. Forgive me, for I am dying, dying! and my — oh, monsieur! beg him to forgive me!" cried Valiska, seizing Aristide's hands. "Oh, what could I do?"

      "Go on, mademoiselle; go on, I entreat you," replied Vis. "My friend owes you his life. You cannot doubt that he will remember the debt?"

      "Ah, monsieur, 'tis hard, 'tis hard. But I — I will be brave for his sake. You remember the rest of the story. When Orloff reached our Russian home, it was to find his foster-child a helpless maniac." Overcome with emotion, Valiska again closed her eyes. "Oh, how weak! how weak!" The pale lips trembled, and it was only after many efforts that the dying girl was able to make her words distinguishable. "Then came my mother's death, and on her dead body we took that oath of vengeance. We swore to hunt down our father's murderers, till not one of their descendants remained. How we have kept that oath you know but too well. Time passed; after my mother had left us we waited patiently, patiently. My brother went to France, but before his departure we had agreed upon our plan. Three years ago, in obedience to a summons from him, we came here to Abois. I was a poor music-teacher, and Wanda in the disguise under which you have known her. Ah, you start? You remember poor Sergius, but you never thought that my charge was a woman. One, two, three years passed after our arrival at Abois, and then the fatal moment came, and we struck our first blow. Oh, for mercy's sake, do not shrink from me," cried the wretched girl, as Dantan recoiled with a shudder at her words. "Oh, do not shrink from me, or I will not have the courage to finish my story. It was to meet me that Marrois came to the fête, but it was Wanda's hand that struck him. It was Wanda who left behind that glove, which might have proved so dangerous to me had not my brother found the means to steal it, and substitute another. We were safe. No one suspected us, or, at least, there was no proof; my brother had cared for that. Then days passed, and a second time our vengeance fell on the descendants of the murderers of our parents. Those miserable women! Ah, we were pitiless. This time, as before, an accident came near to betray us — the imprint of Wanda's hand upon your sleeve. And again, for the second time, my brother was able to turn away suspicion from himself and my sister, for he, too, shared in the holy work. Oh, God, how weak! how weak! Where are you, Henri? Come closer. I can see you no longer, the room grows dark. Oh, I am dying! Now raise me higher. I must finish; my time is short. Your uncle — oh, forgive me — your uncle died by my brother's hand, and now you are menaced with the same danger. Carl lives, and nothing can save you from him but my falsehood, my treachery. One last sacrifice, to betray my brother. Oh, it is hard, hard. And yet, if I save you I can die happy."

      A groan broke from the lips of the suffering girl, her arms fell from Dantan's neck, and with a violent exertion she struggled to rise, her glazing eyeballs fixed in strong horror.

      Aristide instinctively followed the direction of her eyes, and there, in the doorway, where so lately had stood the hideous form of Orloff, he beheld another apparition.

      A tall, thin, and emaciated figure, with pale, cadaverous features; with closely-cropped white hair, and eyes that gleamed with a phosphorous glitter, like those of a hungry tiger.

      The blood stood still in the young man's veins as he recalled with a shudder the description wmen the Baroness d'Aubrac had given of Léon Dantan's murderer. The dying girl trembled and writhed in wild convulsions.

      "Carl! Carl!" she shrieked, and throwing up her arms, fell back upon the pallet.

      "Oh, Aristide! Aristide! She's dead! she's dead!"

      Vis turned at the agonizing cry of his friend. Alas! it was true; Valiska's soul was at rest.

      A deep and painful sigh, which seemed the echo of Dantan's mournful words, once more called his attention to the doorway. It was unoccupied; the apparition had vanished, vanished as mysteriously as if, instead of a human creature, it had been some being from another world.

---

CHAPTER XXXII.

      IT was the next day after the tragic events at Mère Simon's cottage. The news, once made public, had spread with unexampled rapidity.

      To speak of the excitement as intense, irresistible, overpowering, would be a tame description of the whirlwind of astonishment that swept over the town.

      The dark was light, the obscure and sanguinary mystery was a mystery no longer; and what a solution! A dénouement as weird and ghastly as that thrilling moment when the Borgia unvails to Maffio Orsini and his fellow-banqueters the long row of coffins, and the grim, gray figures of the ghostly comforters.

      As romantic as some wild Sicilian or Corsican vendetta. In this age of steam and electricity, of hard materialism and mathematical exactness, the whole affair seemed as unreal as if, in turning over the pages of some dry encyclopedia or musty scientific work, the reader had come suddenly upon a scrap of "Orlando Furioso" or "Amadis de Gaul" hidden away between the leaves.

      Every one, that is, every one of any importance, remembered the Kaiserlic colonel, whose body had been found hanging by the neck from one of the trees in La Forêt on the day after the great cavalry skirmish, and equally well did every one remember the terrible punishment which this had been near to bring down upon the town.

      Père François, Père Antoine, Père Guillaume, and a dozen others, could paint for you the whole scene. The stiff figures, spiked helmets and stolid faces of the Landwehr regiment drawn up in front of the Hotel de Ville; the prancing horses, glittering trappings and fluttering pennons of the Uhlans; the terrified and weeping crowd of women and children; and lastly, the long line of citizens, pale but determined, prepared to bear the issue of the moment with the courage of men, and Frenchmen.

      Within the hall the scene was even more exciting, the pale faces of the town officials contrasting so strongly with the methodical and impassive bearing of the German officers; the tall Prussian colonel, with his flaxen beard and huge spectacles; the excitable and dark-complexioned Bavarian major; the imperturbable Wurtemberger, and handsome Saxon.

      The oaken table supporting the electoral urn and the roll of the Commune; the expression of anxiety changing to a smile of joy, as one by one the citizens filed in and drew from the fatal urn the ballot of life or death.

      It was, indeed, a day of excitement for Abois; a day never to be forgotten in the history of the town; a day to be remembered with shuddering terror.

      Nor was this all that Père François, Père Antoine and Père Guillaume could remember. Oh, no! these dark and gloomy recollections served as a background to throw out into more brilliant prominence the dauntless heroism of the Abbé Marteau. Tears stood in the eyes of the old man whenever they told this story of their beloved abbé's self-abnegation. How, when the fatal ballots had been drawn, and Fathers Lechaud and Jean Roland were on their way to execution, the noble Marteau came forward, and voluntarily proffered his life for the redemption of his fellow-citizens.

      Thank God! the sacrifice was not required, but none the less did the offer produce the desired result. Even the icy-hearted Bismarck had thawed beneath the influence of this calm heroism.

      The vengeance of man by man's self-sacrificing devotion had been turned away; but the vengeance of God! — that stern, immutable justice, requiring "blood for blood, an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth"?

      In the universal joy of the moment, when, thanks to Marteau's exertion, a full pardon had arrived for Father Lechaud and Jean Roland, every one had forgotten that awful declaration, "Vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord." And now, after all these years; now, when the whole story had become a thing of the past, a dim and indistinct recollection — now it appeared that silently but surely, week after week, month after month, year after year, that Power which overrules the destiny of mankind had been forging a thunderbolt to consume the guilty. For many long years those five men, whose cruel deed had well-nigh brought such an awful visitation upon the innocent, had lived there, honored and respected, in Abois.

      One by one the murderers of Paul Eidlesdorf had perished miserably and not these alone, but others, who, innocent themselves, yet from the tie of consanguinity had inherited the heavy debt of blood-guiltiness, until two only of the doomed race remained.

      The vengeance of man by man's self-sacrifice had been turned away, but between the executioners of Heaven's justice and the helpless victims a stronger passion had interfered than ever burneth in the breast of the philanthropist or patriot.

      Love! supreme, unquestioning love! That matchless self-abnegation which holds no price too dear, so that but a single pang of pain be turned away from the object of its devotion.

      Of hate and crime was born the fierce, blood-stained spirit of revenge. Of love came the white-robed angel of mercy.

      "And to think that Léon Dantan should have been guilty of such a deed! That the friend I have respected all my life, the companion of my boyhood, the man whom I have always looked up to — Ah! Monsieur Vis, this is a hard blow; a hard blow, indeed."

      The face of Claude Duquesnay attested the truth of his words. The grave, nay, even severe, expression habitual to him, had given place to emotion and excitement too powerful for repression. He strode up and down the room, the short and nervous steps bespeaking the great struggle going on within his breast.

      "But, monsieur," replied Aristide, soothingly, in pity for the evident pain indelibly stamped on the features of his companion — "you must make some allowance for your friend. Think of the hatred, the bitter national antagonism, the stories so freely circulated of German cruelty to French prisoners — mistaken patriotism ——"

      "Could never pardon such a crime. I see your intention, and thank you for it. You pity my suffering, and, indeed, it is great. To be thus suddenly and rudely awakened to find the friend, the one being on whom you would have staked your life and honor, a wretched criminal, a cowardly assassin. I say again, monsieur, it is hard; very hard."

      "But ——"

      "No," continued the judge, heedless of Aristide's interruption, "there can be but one way in which an honest man can look at this miserable affair. Everything should have combined to protect the victim from his murderer. The respect of brave men for a gallant antagonist, the pity of the strong for the helpless and weak. Oh, it was a vile deed! A wounded, almost dying man confiding in the chivalry of a Frenchman, a fellow-soldier. It was a disgrace!"

      "But think of the fearful punishment! I have reason to know that ever since Pierre Marrois's death Monsieur Dantan had been aware of the awful doom which hung over him. Think of the agony of living for so many weeks in the perpetual expectation of death. Let this plead with you for your friend Léon."

      "That is it — he was my friend. Had it been otherwise, I could have pardoned something of the heinousness of the crime in consideration of the punishment. But, monsieur, if you understand the full meaning of the word friendship, you will appreciate my feelings."

      The agitation of the speaker had robbed him of the power of utterance, and he resumed his rapid walk.

      Aristide broke the silence after some time.

      "The whole affair is, indeed, very painful, Monsieur le Juge. But it seems to me, if you will excuse my boldness, that instead of repining over the past, we should be at work. An interposition of Providence has saved the lives of Henri Dantan and his cousin, for the time, at least. I say for the time, monsieur; because the full safety of my friend and his fiancée is not yet assured. Remember that the chief actor in this drama of revenge still lives."

      "You speak of this mysterious brother," cried Duquesnay, suddenly stopping in his walk; "you are right. I am failing in my duty, which is to protect the living, not to weep over the deed. Come, tell me again all that took place at the cottage."

      As Aristide had hoped, the implied reproach contained in his last words had not failed to produce the desired effect. The change was wonderful; emotion, excitement, agitation, all disappeared in a moment, and when Monsieur Claude seated himself at his desk it was the grave and stern Juge d'Instruction, and not the heart-broken friend, whom Aristide saw before him.

      Again, for the second time that day, did Aristide enter into a detailed statement of the tragedy at the ruined hovel of La Forêt. Prefacing his narrative with a résumé of what he had learned from Henri Dantan, he went on to tell the story of that portion of the affair to which he had been an eye-witness.

      Almost in Valiska's own words he described the cruel and dastardly assassination of Colonel Eidlesdorf, and of the wounding of his faithful servant; of the rescue and preservation of Ivanovich by Mère Simon, and the long days and nights passed in the cottage of the peasant woman, during which the old man, half crazed from the delirium of fever, and smarting under the agony of his wounds, had but one thought, one dream — Revenge for the merciless slaughter, by the five French soldiers, of his beloved master!

      Then came the still more sad and moving account of Vera Eidlesdorf's death; the children kneeling around the bedside of their mother, and following, word by word, the fierce oath of vengeance, as it fell from the trembling lips of the dying woman.

      In quick succession followed the other incidents of the story: the arrival of the sisters at Abois, the murder of Pierre Marrois, of Madame Robert and her daughter, and of Léon Dantan.

      The magistrate listened with grave attention until Aristide reached that portion of his narrative when, attracted by the exclamation of the dying girl, he had looked up, and beheld in the doorway of the hut the spectral form of the dreaded assassin.

      The rapid change which passed over the features of Monsieur Claude plainly proved that his emotion was getting the better of his official impassibility. Unable at length to control himself any longer, he drew a long, deep breath, and striking a heavy blow upon the desk with his clinched fist, he cried out:

      "Again, monsieur, again describe to me this miserable wretch, whose hands are soiled with the blood of my friend; this assassin who eludes and mocks at me — me, whose duty it is to protect the lives and property of these poor citizens of Abois! What am I to say, monsieur, to my official superiors, when they ask me what I have done in this affair? Oh, this villain will be my death! Speak, I conjure you, and tell me again what the demon is like!"

      "Unhappily, Monsieur le Juge," replied Vis, "I can give you but a shadowy description of the man. Tall, slender, with pale, cadaverous features, closely-cropped white hair, and eyes that glow with the phosphorescent glare of a beast of prey. You remember, without doubt, the picture which Madame d'Aubrac drew of this mysterious murderer? I can add nothing to it."

      "And why — why did you not seize him?"

      "You forget, monsieur," answered Aristide, stiffly, resenting the implied reproach in the tone of the question — "you forget my position. I had barely time for a single glance, when Henri's cry that mademoiselle was dying drew away my attention. When I looked again, as I told you before, the man had disappeared."

      "Oh, this is too much! too much!" exclaimed Duquesnay, springing to his feet and striding excitedly up and down the room. "Who is this man that murders people with impunity — that laughs to scorn the sharp eye of justice? Who ——   But stop! What is this you tell me? Did not Mademoiselle Zortichoff declare that it was this misérable who effected that strange exchange of the glove?"

      "It is true."

      "And yet, as I am a living man, monsieur, that glove was locked up in this desk"; and the excited magistrate dealt another rap upon the article of furniture mentioned. "Would you have me distrust my clerk, my poor Guillaume, or the two or three gendarmes who have the entrée of my office? I tell you I have known these men for years — almost from my childhood. I have known their parents. It is out of the question that the assassin could be concealed among them."

      "And yet Mademoiselle Valiska was positive in her declaration."

      "Oh, I will have this man! Do you hear me, Monsieur Vis? I will have this man, even if I am obliged to search every house, to interrogate every man, woman and child in the town! Say what they will, no one shall have the right to accuse me of idleness. I will send for Dupont at once. I will avenge my friend's death. I will ——"

      The speaker paused. In his excitement he had approached the door, but at the very moment when he was about to lay his hand upon the knob, it was flung violently open, and Monsieur Dupont, the Chief of Police, entered the apartment.

      Claude Duquesnay recoiled from the newcomer with surprise and astonishment. Was this indeed the Chief of Police of Abois — the rigid and inflexible example of official discipline, whom one would as little expect to see influenced by ordinary human emotions as a statue of bronze or marble? This Dupont was plainly agitated; this Dupont was plainly moved by some strong excitement. His face was flushed, his features worked convulsively, and when he strove to speak he stammered so violently, that his words were for the moment unintelligible.

      "Monsieur," he stammered, "it is my duty ——   Monsieur, I have to tell you ——   Monsieur, the strangest circumstance ——"

      The Chief of Police could get no further, absolute want of breath reducing him for the time to silence.

      "In the name of Heaven, what is this, Dupont?" inquired the judge, who had at length recovered from the wonder aroused within him by the strange change of manner in his usually prosaic and unexcitable subordinate.

      Dupont took a moment to recover himself and arrange his ideas before he replied.

      "Monsieur le Juge," he began, at length, still speaking with considerable difficulty, "I have a very strange story to relate. This morning I received a summons to attend you at this office. I was just preparing to obey, when Alexander Michaud, concièrge of a house in the Rue de France, came to me in great trouble. Something awful had happened to one of his lodgers. Indeed, he had every reason to believe the man had committed suicide."

      "What?"

      "Yes, monsieur; this lodger, a young man, had, according to Michaud's account, retired to his chamber about nine o'clock the night before. From that time he had never left the apartment, nor had any other person been seen to enter it. This, in itself, would not have been strange, for the young man might only have been sleeping off the effects of a little too much wine. But, this morning, one of the neighbors had heard the explosion of a firearm of some kind within the room, and — and — Père Michaud was evidently so much excited, that I considered it my duty to investigate the affair."

      "Well, well, Dupont?"

      "I followed the concièrge to the house, No. 140 Rue de France. The lodger's room was on the fifth floor. The door was locked. I forced it open, and ——"

      The chief was again obliged to pause for a moment — a moment of tantalizing suspense to the two listeners, who had not failed to be deeply impressed with the words and manner of the speaker.

      "Monsieur, a glance showed me that Michaud's suspicions were, alas! but too well founded. The first sight that met my eye was the form of a man, lying face downward, upon the floor of the little room. A small revolver lay beside him, and the bare boards were hideously bespattered and stained with the blood and brains of the unfortunate wretch."

      "Mon Dieu! Another crime? More blood?"

      "Unhappily yes, Monsieur le Juge."

      "And who was this unfortunate young man, Dupont?"

      Dupont hesitated, and seemed at a loss for the proper word to reply to the question. His hesitation was indeed so marked, that it could not escape the notice of Duquesnay and Vis, and both gentlemen waited anxiously for the chief's reply.

      "The room was a mean little place, monsieur — a cheap twenty-franc apartment; scarcely any furniture but a bed, a table, and two chairs; in one corner a battered valise; that was all."

      "But the man — the man, Dupont?"

      "Upon the table, near which one of the chairs had been drawn, were writing materials, several loose sheets of paper ——"

      The Juge d'Instruction, surprised and perplexed at the persistent refusal of the chief to reply to his question, gazed with astonishment on the stern face of his official subordinate, which had regained all its usual impassiveness.

      "And this ——?"

      The impressive manner in which the head of the police department of Abois pronounced these last words produced such an effect that it was several moments before Claude Duquesnay could collect himself sufficiently to take the strip of paper which Dupont extended toward him.

      At length mastering his excitement, he seized the offered object — a sheet of notepaper covered with closely-written lines — and in a deep, suppressed, and agitated tone of voice, he read aloud:

      The paper fluttered from the hand of the magistrate; the silence that followed was painful and oppressive. The sound of Duquesnay's voice breaking the stillness set the overstrained nerves of the others vibrating like the explosion of a cannon.

      "The assassin of Abois," he cried, with bitter emphasis; "this wretch has indeed escaped the punishment of man!"

      "Monsieur," said Dupont, solemnly, "the most astounding part of this affair is yet to come. This man was no stranger to you, to monsieur there, or myself. I recognized the face the moment the body was turned over. The wig and beard were gone, but there was no mistaking the face. It was ——"

      The chief paused to give effect to the revelation he was about to make, and glanced at the other two.

      In breathless expectance they hung upon his words.

      A slight, a very slight, smile of satisfaction stole over the rigid countenance.

      Dupont advanced a step nearer, and in a low, impressive voice, pronounced a name — "Charles Guimand."

---

CHAPTER XXXIII.

      TWICE has the busy world accomplished its weary, annual pilgrimage around the sun.

      Twice have the green leaves on the chestnut-trees of Abois withered and died under the wasting hand of Autumn.

      Twice has Winter spread her carpet of white velvet over the blooming meadows where Colonel Courcelles and his hussars pranced and curveted amid the blare of trumpets, the glitter of brass, and the flash of steel, for the edification and amusement of the honest townfolk.

      Two years have passed and gone, to be buried for ever in the storehouse of eternity.

      Two long years, and yet in all that space of time how little change is visible in the beautiful face of inanimate nature — that calm and placid countenance on which, as on the stony and impassive features of the Egyptian Sphinx, the trace of the year's ravages are as a grain of sand in the Desert of Sahara — an atom in the boundless realms of space.

      The moss is greener and thicker on the steep, slanting roof of La Bonne Colombe, and the old-fashioned windows and venerable stuccoed walls of the antique building are more markedly in contrast with the plate glass and red brick of its neighbors.

      The Hotel de Ville, recently painted within and without, is as bright and fresh as a new napoleon, and the Dépot de Police shines brilliantly in its annual coating of official whitewash. New edifices, perhaps a dozen in number, have sprung up in the gaps and vacant lots, and this is all.

      The stage upon which we have followed for some time the course of our drama is still unchanged, still set for the same scene. But the actors! Oh, where are they? Here all is different, for change is one of the fundamental laws of human existence. A new mayor rules over Abois. Etienne Hilbert, retired upholsterer, sways the baton of magisterial supremacy, sits at the same desk; and, stranger still, dispenses hospitality in the same mansion formerly made so attractive by the geniality and intelligence of poor Léon Dantan. Nor is this the only loss which the official circle of Abois has sustained.

      Claude Duquesnay has abandoned the law for the larger excitement of a political life; his voice is now often heard in the Chamber, and report says that it is not one of the least weighty in controlling the affairs of the nation. Dupont, too, the worthy and efficient Chef de Police, has climbed another step higher on the ladder of advancement, and rules, as the representative of the Prefecture, over one of the large cities of the south.

      Stéphanie Marrois has returned to her little shop in Lyons. She takes with her Delphine Simon and her grandmother. The crazy girl is to be her charge in the future, and Stéphanie has also pledged herself to secure the welfare and prosperity of Marrois's child. She is employed in preparing a plan for the endowment of the Asylum for Poor Children, to which she proposes to devote the wealth of her murdered husband.

      Even Jeanne Aglaé Marie Séraphine Pichaud and Baptiste Ducorneau have deserted the town, and are now enjoying, as man and wife, all the blissful delights of a porter's lodge in one of the new maisons de logement of the capital.

      One alone remains faithful to the fortunes of Abois.

      Papa Dubois stoutly refuses to move his cuisine to Paris, and it is with many a sigh that Aristide recalls the gastronomic chef d'œuvres of the immortal papa.

      So much for the little people of our drama.

      With the others — with those we have known more familiarly, more intimately — the change is even greater. Fulfilling the destinies of mankind, the hermit of Abois has married.

      Angelique d'Aubrac's nerves had received such a shock upon the night of Léon's murder, that the little lady loudly declared she would not feel safe unless she could feel a man near her at all times.

      Aristide, of course, submitted with the best grace, and is now engaged in the preparation of a wonderful code of philosophical and metaphysical education, which is to make the anxiously-expected Monsieur Aristide Vis, Jr., a shining planet in the political firmament, should the Republic Française be so good as to exist for twenty or thirty years longer.

      The baroness is as captivating as ever, but her flirtations have assumed so mild a form, that the most jealous could scarcely find cause for reproach. She is still the friend of and inseparable from Henriette Rousel.

      No, not Henriette Rousel, for the cousins have completed the family contract, and are now man and wife.

      Henri makes a most excellent husband, and Madame Dantan flatters herself, like all good wives, that her husband has no secrets from her.

      We greatly fear, however, that she will never hear the true story of that interview in the cottage of Mère Simon.

      "No man," said the philosopher, when questioned by his friend on this very subject, "is obliged to put a whip in the hands of a woman which she may use at some day to lash him," and, we are ashamed to say, the captain has accepted the advice contained in the aphorism/

      Poor Orloff perished miserably within the year which witnessed the fatal ending of the last of that family which he had served so long and devotedly.

      The old man died in the madhouse at Charenton, where, for months, he had lived, a gloomy and morose maniac, his only occupation the monotonous repetition of those names which he had scratched on the wall of the cottage of La Forêt.

      In one of the greenest portions of the Cemetery of St. Jean, a simple marble cross bears upon its polished face a list of names. The first is Paul Graf von Eidlesdorf; the last, Valiska Gräfin von Eidlesdorf; below stands written the mournful record of human forgiveness, "Requiescant in Pace."

      We can do no better than to echo the last word of the epitaph — Amen!

THE END.