to be able to bring one
of your most laudable actions up against you.' 'You are right,' my father
said. 'Do as you think best, my dear wife.'

"A quarter of an hour, later, the Abbe Poivron came into the
drawing-room, and the situation was explained to him, analyzed and
discussed in all its bearings. If the Marquis de Fumerol, one of the
greatest names in France, were to die without the ministrations of
religion, it would assuredly be a terrible blow to the nobility in
general, and to the Count de Tourneville in particular, and the
freethinkers would be triumphant. The liberal newspapers would sing songs
of victory for six months; my mother's name would be dragged through the
mire and brought into the prose of Socialistic journals, and my father's
name would be smirched. It was impossible that such a thing should be.

"A crusade was therefore immediately decided upon, which was to be led by
the Abbe Poivron, a little, fat, clean, priest with a faint perfume about
him, a true vicar of a large church in a noble and rich quarter.

"The landau was ordered and we all three set out, my mother, the cure and
I, to administer the last sacraments to my uncle.

"It had been decided first of all we should see Madame Melanie who had
written the letter, and who was most likely the porter's wife, or my
uncle's servant, and I dismounted, as an advance guard, in front of a
seven-story house and went into a dark passage, where I had great
difficulty in finding the porter's den. He looked at me distrustfully,
and I said:

"'Madame Melanie, if you please.' 'Don't know her!' 'But I have received
a letter from her.' 'That may be, but I don't know her. Are you asking
for a lodger?' 'No, a servant probably. She wrote me about a place.' 'A
servant?--a servant? Perhaps it is the marquis'. Go and see, the
fifth story on the left.'

"As soon as he found I was not asking for a doubtful character he became
more friendly and came as far as the corridor with me. He was a tall,
thin man with white whiskers, the manners of a beadle and majestic
gestures.

"I climbed up a long spiral staircase, the railing of which I did not
venture to touch, and I gave three discreet knocks at the left-hand door
on the fifth story. It opened immediately, and an enormous dirty woman
appeared before me. She barred the entrance with her extended arms which
she placed against the two doorposts, and growled:

"'What do you want?' 'Are you Madame Melanie?' 'Yes.' 'I