Madame d'A----, a well-known star
of the first magnitude. A score of gentlemen of high rank and immense
wealth were enjoying a quiet game of baccarat, when it was observed that
M. F---- was winning in a most extraordinary manner. He was watched and
detected in the very act of dexterously slipping some cards into the
pack he held. Crushed by the overpowering evidence against him, he
allowed himself to be searched, and without much demur consented to
refund the fruit of his knavery, to the amount of two thousand louis.
The strangest thing connected with this scandal is, that M. F----, who
is an advocate by profession, has always enjoyed an enviable reputation
for integrity; and, unfortunately, this prank cannot be attributed to a
momentary fit of madness, for the fact that he had provided himself with
these cards in advance proves the act to have been premeditated. One of
the persons present was especially displeased. This was the Viscount de
C----, who had introduced M. F---- to Madame d'A----. Extremely annoyed
by this contretemps, he took umbrage at an offensive remark made by M.
de R----, and it was rumored that these gentlemen would cross swords at
daybreak this morning.

"LATER INTELLIGENCE.--We learn at the moment of going to press that an
encounter has just taken place between M. de R---- and M. de C----.
M. de R---- received a slight wound in the side, but his condition is
sufficiently satisfactory not to alarm his friends."

The paper slipped from Pascal's hand. His features were almost
unrecognizable in his passion and despair. "It is an infamous lie!"
he said, hoarsely. "I am innocent; I swear it upon my honor!" Dartelle
averted his face, but not quickly enough to prevent Pascal from noticing
the look of withering scorn in his eyes. Then, feeling that he was
condemned, that his sentence was irrevocable, and that there was no
longer any hope: "I know the only thing that remains for me to do!" he
murmured.

Dartelle turned, his eyes glistening with tears. He seized Pascal's
hands and pressed them with sorrowful tenderness, as if taking leave of
a friend who is about to die. "Courage!" he whispered.

Pascal fled like a madman. "Yes," he repeated, as he rushed along the
Boulevard Saint-Michel, "that is the only thing left me to do."

When he reached home he entered his office, double-locked the door, and
wrote two letters--one to his mother, the other to the president of the
order of Advocates. After a mom