railleur was playing a game of whist with a party of old
friends, according to her custom every Thursday evening, when M. de
Coralth called to invite the young advocate to accompany him to Madame
d'Argeles's reception. Pascal considered his friend's invitation
exceedingly well timed. He dressed himself with more than ordinary care,
and, as usual before going out, he approached his mother to kiss her and
wish her good-bye. "How fine you are!" she said, smiling.

"I am going to a soiree, my dear mother," he replied; "and it is
probable that I shall not return until very late. So don't wait for me,
I beg of you; promise me to go to bed at your usual hour."

"Have you the night-key?"

"Yes."

"Very well, then; I will not wait for you. When you come in you will
find your candle and some matches on the buffet in the ante-room. And
wrap yourself up well, for it is very cold." Then raising her forehead
to her son's lips, she gayly added: "A pleasant evening to you, my boy!"

Faithful to her promise, Madame Ferailleur retired at the usual hour;
but she could not sleep. She certainly had no cause for anxiety, and
yet the thought that her son was not at home filled her heart with
vague misgivings such as she had never previously felt under similar
circumstances. Possibly it was because she did not know where Pascal was
going. Possibly M. de Coralth was the cause of her strange disquietude,
for she utterly disliked the viscount. Her woman's instinct warned her
that there was something unwholesome about this young man's peculiar
handsomeness, and that it was not safe to trust to his professions of
friendship. At all events, she lay awake and heard the clock of the
neighboring Normal School strike each successive hour--two, three, and
four. "How late Pascal stays," she said to herself.

And suddenly a fear more poignant even than her presentiments darted
through her mind. She sprang out of bed and rushed to the window. She
fancied she had heard a terrible cry of distress in the deserted street.
At that very moment, the insulting word "thief" was being hurled in her
son's face. But the street was silent, and deciding that she had been
mistaken, she went back to bed laughing at herself for her fears; and
at last she fell asleep. But judge of her terror in the morning when, on
rising to let the servant in, she saw Pascal's candle still standing on
the buffet. Was it possible that he had not returned? She hastened to
his room--he w