e great care of
dear M. Vautrin."

Poiret went out on tiptoe without a murmur, like a dog kicked out of the
room by his master.

Rastignac had gone out for the sake of physical exertion; he wanted
to breathe the air, he felt stifled. Yesterday evening he had meant to
prevent the murder arranged for half-past eight that morning. What had
happened? What ought he to do now? He trembled to think that he himself
might be implicated. Vautrin's coolness still further dismayed him.

"Yet, how if Vautrin should die without saying a word?" Rastignac asked
himself.

He hurried along the alleys of the Luxembourg Gardens as if the hounds
of justice were after him, and he already heard the baying of the pack.

"Well?" shouted Bianchon, "you have seen the _Pilote_?"

The _Pilote_ was a Radical sheet, edited by M. Tissot. It came out
several hours later than the morning papers, and was meant for the
benefit of country subscribers; for it brought the morning news into
provincial districts twenty-four hours sooner than the ordinary local
journals.

"There is a wonderful history in it," said the house student of the
Hopital Cochin. "Young Taillefer called out Count Franchessini, of
the Old Guard, and the Count put a couple of inches of steel into his
forehead. And here is little Victorine one of the richest heiresses in
Paris! If we had known that, eh? What a game of chance death is! They
say Victorine was sweet on you; was there any truth in it?"

"Shut up, Bianchon; I shall never marry her. I am in love with a
charming woman, and she is in love with me, so----"

"You said that as if you were screwing yourself up to be faithful
to her. I should like to see the woman worth the sacrifice of Master
Taillefer's money!"

"Are all the devils of hell at my heels?" cried Rastignac.

"What is the matter with you? Are you mad? Give us your hand," said
Bianchon, "and let me feel your pulse. You are feverish."

"Just go to Mother Vauquer's," said Rastignac; "that scoundrel Vautrin
has dropped down like one dead."

"Aha!" said Bianchon, leaving Rastignac to his reflections, "you confirm
my suspicions, and now I mean to make sure for myself."

The law student's long walk was a memorable one for him. He made in
some sort a survey of his conscience. After a close scrutiny, after
hesitation and self-examination, his honor at any rate came out
scatheless from this sharp and terrible ordeal, like a bar of iron
tested in the English fashio