to the participators, whose
passions have already carried them beyond the limits of social
propriety.

Thus M. Fauvel never once thought of asking this stranger who he was and
where he came from.

He heard and understood but one fact: the anonymous letter had lied.

"But my wife confesses she is guilty," he stammered.

"So she is," replied M. Verduret, "but not of the crime you imagine. Do
you know who that man is, that you attempted to kill?"

"Her lover!"

"No: her son!"

The words of this stranger, showing his intimate knowledge of the
private affairs of all present, seemed to confound and frighten Raoul
more than M. Fauvel's threats had done. Yet he had sufficient presence
of mind to say:

"It is the truth!"

The banker looked wildly from Raoul to M. Verduret; then, fastening his
haggard eyes on his wife, exclaimed:

"It is false! you are all conspiring to deceive me! Proofs!"

"You shall have proofs," replied M. Verduret, "but first listen."

And rapidly, with his wonderful talent for exposition, he related the
principal points of the plot he had discovered.

The true state of the case was terribly distressing to M. Fauvel, but
nothing compared with what he had suspected.

His throbbing, yearning heart told him that he still loved his wife. Why
should he punish a fault committed so many years ago, and atoned for by
twenty years of devotion and suffering?

For some moments after M. Verduret had finished his explanation, M.
Fauvel remained silent.

So many strange events had happened, rapidly following each other in
succession, and culminating in the shocking scene which had just taken
place, that M. Fauvel seemed to be too bewildered to think clearly.

If his heart counselled pardon and forgetfulness, wounded pride and
self-respect demanded vengeance.

If Raoul, the baleful witness, the living proof of a far-off sin, were
not in existence, M. Fauvel would not have hesitated. Gaston de Clameran
was dead; he would have held out his arms to his wife, and said:

"Come to my heart! your sacrifices for my honor shall be your
absolution; let the sad past be forgotten."

But the sight of Raoul froze the words upon his lips.

"So this is your son," he said to his wife--"this man, who has plundered
you and robbed me!"

Mme. Fauvel was unable to utter a word in reply to these reproachful
words.

"Oh!" said M. Verduret, "madame will tell you that this young man is the
son of Gaston de Clameran; s