ible fact that this infamous plot had been successful, and
that Pascal was dishonored. He was honesty itself, and yet he was
accused--more than that, CONVICTED--of cheating at cards! He was
innocent, and yet he could furnish no proofs of his innocence. He knew
the real culprit, and yet he could see no way of unmasking him or even
of accusing him. Do what he would, this atrocious, incomprehensive
calumny would crush him. The bar was closed against him; his career was
ended. And the terrible conviction that there was no escape from the
abyss into which he had fallen made his reason totter--he felt that he
was incapable of deciding on the best course, and that he must have a
friend's advice.

Full of this idea, he hastily changed his clothes, and hurried from
his room. His mother was watching for him--inclined to laugh at him
a little; but a single glance warned her that her son was in terrible
trouble, and that some dire misfortune had certainly befallen him.
"Pascal, in heaven's name, what has happened?" she cried.

"A slight difficulty--a mere trifle," he replied.

"Where are you going?"

"To the Palais de Justice." And such was really the case, for he hoped
to meet his most intimate friend there.

Contrary to his usual custom, he took the little staircase on the right,
leading to the grand vestibule, where several lawyers were assembled,
earnestly engaged in conversation. They were evidently astonished to
see Pascal, and their conversation abruptly ceased on his approach.
They assumed a grave look and turned away their heads in disgust. The
unfortunate man at once realized the truth, and pressed his hand to
his forehead, with a despairing gesture, as he murmured:
"Already!--already!"

However, he passed on, and not seeing his friend, he hurried to the
little conference hall, where he found five of his fellow-advocates. On
Pascal's entrance, two of them at once left the hall, while two of the
others pretended to be very busily engaged in examining a brief which
lay open on the table. The fifth, who did not move, was not the friend
Pascal sought, but an old college comrade named Dartelle. Pascal walked
straight toward him. "Well?" he asked.

Dartelle handed him a Figaro, still damp from the printing-press, but
crumpled and worn, as if it had already passed through more than a
hundred hands. "Read!" said he.

Pascal read as follows: "There was great sensation and a terrible
scandal last night at the residence of