her son. A keen observer needed no further explanation of
the scene.

"I will not conceal from you, monsieur," began the baron, "that I
have been led here by certain compunctions of conscience." And,
misinterpreting a gesture which Pascal made, "I mean what I say," he
continued; "compunctions of conscience. I have them occasionally. Your
departure this morning, after that deplorable scene, caused certain
doubts and suspicions to arise in my mind; and I said to myself, 'We
have been too hasty; perhaps this young man may not be guilty.'"

"Monsieur!" interrupted Pascal, in a threatening tone.

"Excuse me, allow me to finish, if you please. Reflection, I must
confess, only confirmed this impression, and increased my doubts. 'The
devil!' I said to myself again; 'if this young man is innocent, the
culprit must be one of the habitues of Madame d'Argeles's house--that is
to say, a man with whom I play twice a week, and whom I shall play with
again next Monday.' And then I became uneasy, and here I am!" Was the
absurd reason which the baron gave for his visit the true one? It was
difficult to decide. "I came," he continued, "thinking that a look at
your home would teach me something; and now I have seen it, I am ready
to take my oath that you are the victim of a vile conspiracy."

So saying he noisily blew his nose, but this did not prevent him from
observing the quiet joy of Pascal and his mother. They were amazed. But
although these words were calculated to make them feel intensely happy,
they still looked at their visitor with distrust. It is not natural for
a person to interest himself in other people's misfortunes, unless he
has some special motive for doing so; and what could this singular man's
object be?

However, he did not seem in the slightest degree disconcerted by the
glacial reserve with which his advances were received. "It is clear
that you are in some one's way," he resumed, "and that this some one has
invented this method of ruining you. There can be no question about it.
The intention became manifest to my mind the moment I read the paragraph
concerning you in the Figaro. Have you seen it? Yes? Well, what do you
think of it? I would be willing to swear that it was written from notes
furnished by your enemy. Moreover, the particulars are incorrect, and I
am going to write a line of correction which I shall take to the office
myself." So saying he transported his unwieldy person to Pascal's desk,
and hasti