op-window. As
she hurried along, the Marquis de Monpavon, vivacious and superb, with a
flower in his buttonhole, saluted her at a distance with the grand
flourish of the hat so dear to the vanity of woman, the acme of elegance
in the way of street salutations, the hat raised high in air above a
rigid head. She answered with the polite greeting of the true Parisian,
hardly expressed by an imperceptible movement of the figure and a smile
in the eyes; and, seeing that exchange of worldly courtesies amid the
springtime merrymaking, no one would have suspected that the same
sinister thought guided the footsteps of those two, who met by chance on
the road they were both following, in opposite directions, but aiming
for the same goal.

The prediction of Mora's valet with regard to the marquis was fulfilled:
"We may die or lose our power, then you will be called to account and it
will be a terrible time." It was a terrible time. With the utmost
difficulty the ex-receiver-general had obtained an extension of a
fortnight in which to reimburse the Treasury, clinging to one last
chance, that Jansoulet's election would be confirmed, and that, having
recovered his millions, he would come once more to his assistance. The
decision of the Chamber had deprived him of that supreme hope. As soon
as he heard of it, he returned very calmly to the club and went up to
his room where Francis was impatiently waiting to hand him an important
paper that had arrived during the day. It was a notice to Sieur
Louis-Marie-Agenor de Monpavon to appear the next day at the office of
the examining magistrate. Was that addressed to the director of the
_Caisse Territoriale_ or to the defaulting ex-receiver-general? In any
event, the employment at the outset of the brutal method of formal
summons, instead of a quiet notification, was sufficiently indicative of
the seriousness of the affair and the firm determination of the
authorities.

In the face of such an extremity, which he had long foreseen and
expected, the old beau's course was determined in advance. A Monpavon in
the police-court, a Monpavon librarian at Mazas! Never! He put all his
affairs in order, destroyed papers, carefully emptied his pockets, in
which he placed only a few ingredients taken from his toilet-table, and
all in such a perfectly calm and natural way that when he said to
Francis as he left the room: "Going to take a bath. Beastly Chamber.
Poisonous dirt," the servant believed what h