been surprised to see how greatly he was moved by such a
trifle. "Poor girl!" said he, in view of saying something. And then, in
a tone of assumed carelessness, he inquired: "Did they never discover
what scoundrel carried Mademoiselle de Chalusse away?"

"Never. Who he was, whence he came, whether he was young or old, how he
became acquainted with Mademoiselle Hermine--these questions were never
answered. It was rumored at one time that he was an American, a captain
in the navy; but that was only a rumor. To tell the truth, they never
even discovered his name."

"What, not even his name?"

"Not even his name."

Unable to master his emotion, M. Fortunat had at least the presence of
mind to rise and step back into the darker part of the shop. But his
gesture of disappointment and the muttered oath that fell from his lips
did not escape Madame Vantrasson. She was startled, and from that moment
she looked upon the supposed clerk with evident distrust. It was not
long before he again resumed his seat nearer the counter, still a
trifle pale, perhaps, but apparently calm. Two questions more seemed
indispensable to him, and yet either one of them would be sure to arouse
suspicion. Nevertheless, he resolved to incur the risk of betraying
himself. And, after all, what would it matter now? Did he not possess
the information he had wished for, at least as much of it as it was in
this woman's power to impart? "I can scarcely tell you, my dear madame,
how much your narrative has interested me," he began. "I can confess
now that I am slightly acquainted with the Count de Chalusse, and that I
have frequently visited the house in the Rue de Courcelles, where he now
resides."

"You!" exclaimed the woman, taking a hasty inventory of M. Fortunat's
toilette.

"Yes, I--on the part of my employer, understand. Each time I've been
to visit M. de Chalusse's I've seen a young lady whom I took for his
daughter there. I was wrong, no doubt, since he isn't a married man--"

He paused. Astonishment and anger seemed to be almost suffocating his
hostess. Without understanding how or why, she felt convinced that she
had been duped; and if she had obeyed her first impulse she would have
attacked M. Isidore then and there. If she restrained this impulse, if
she made an effort to control herself, it was only because she thought
she held a better revenge in reserve.

"A young lady in the count's house!" she said, thoughtfully. "That's
scarcely pos