as not there. And it was nearly eight o'clock.

This was the first time that Pascal had spent a night from home without
warning his mother in advance; and such an act on the part of a man
of his character was sufficient proof that something extraordinary
had occurred. In an instant all the dangers that lurk in Paris after
nightfall flashed through her mind. She remembered all the stories she
had read of men decoyed into dark corners, of men stabbed at the turn of
some deserted street, or thrown into the Seine while crossing one of
the bridges. What should she do? Her first impulse was to run to the
Commissary of Police's office or to the house of Pascal's friend; but
on the other hand, she dared not go out, for fear he might return in her
absence. Thus, in an agony of suspense, she waited--counting the seconds
by the quick throbbings of her temples, and straining her ears to catch
the slightest sound.

At last, about half-past eight o'clock, she heard a heavy, uncertain
footfall on the stairs. She flew to the door and beheld her son. His
clothes were torn and disordered; his cravat was missing, he wore no
overcoat, and he was bareheaded. He looked very pale, and his teeth were
chattering. His eyes stared vacantly, and his features had an almost
idiotic expression. "Pascal, what has happened to you?" she asked.

He trembled from head to foot as the sound of her voice suddenly roused
him from his stupor. "Nothing," he stammered; "nothing at all." And as
his mother pressed him with questions, he pushed her gently aside and
went on to his room.

"Poor child!" murmured Madame Ferailleur, at once grieved and reassured;
"and he is always so temperate. Some one must have forced him to drink."

She was entirely wrong in her surmise, and yet Pascal's sensations were
exactly like those of an intoxicated man. How he had returned home, by
what road, and what had happened on the way, he could not tell. He had
found his way back mechanically, merely by force of habit--physical
memory, as it might be called. He had a vague impression, however, that
he had sat down for some time on a bench in the Champs-Elysees, that he
had felt extremely cold, and that he had been accosted by a policeman,
who threatened him with arrest if he did not move on. The last thing he
could clearly recollect was rushing from Madame d'Argeles's house in
the Rue de Berry. He knew that he had descended the staircase slowly
and deliberately; that the servants i