er son's shoulder, Madame Ferailleur read what he had
written. "Do you intend to trust this letter to the post?" she
inquired. "Are you sure, perfectly sure, that it will reach Mademoiselle
Marguerite, and not some one else who might use it against you?"

Pascal shook his head. "I know how to insure its safe receipt," he
replied. "Some time ago, Marguerite told me that if ever any great peril
threatened us, I might call for the housekeeper at the Chalusse mansion
and intrust my message to her. The danger is sufficiently great to
justify such a course in the present instance. So I shall pass down the
Rue de Courcelles, ask to see Madame Leon, and give her this letter.
Have no fear, my dear mother."

As he spoke, he began to pack all the legal documents which had been
confided to him into a large box, which was to be carried to one of his
former friends, who would distribute the papers among the people they
belonged to. He next made a small bundle of the few important private
papers and valuables he possessed; and then, ready for the sacrifice,
he took a last survey of the pleasant home where success had smiled so
favorably upon his efforts, where he had been so happy, and where he
had cherished such bright dreams of the future. Overcome by a flood of
recollections, the tears sprang to his eyes. He embraced his mother, and
fled precipitately from the house.

"Poor child!" murmured Madame Ferailleur; "poor Pascal!"

Was she not also to be pitied? This was the second time within twenty
years that a thunderbolt had fallen on her in the full sunlight of
happiness. And yet now, as on the day following her husband's death, she
found in her heart the robust energy and heroic maternal constancy which
enable one to rise above every misfortune. It was in a firm voice that
she ordered her servant to go in search of the nearest furniture dealer,
no matter which, provided he would pay cash. And when the man arrived
she showed him through the rooms with stoical calmness. God alone knew
how intensely she was suffering. And yet while she was waiting for the
dealer, each piece of furniture had acquired an extraordinary value in
her eyes. It seemed to her as if each object were a part of herself, and
when the man turned and twisted a chair or a table she almost considered
it a personal affront.

The rich, who are accustomed from birth to the luxury that surrounds
them, are ignorant of the terrible sufferings which attend such cases
as