irl's head. Cinette is not there, and the poor creature realizes it and
weeps in agony. She would have reminded one of an Hindoo idol had she
been seen. An hour elapsed, but the poor deformed woman still lies
there.

Suddenly she raises her head. She hears rapid steps on the stairs. When
Cinette went out she had locked the door of her room. The porter to be
sure had another key. When some one knocked at the porter's lodge he was
not yet up, and answered gruffly that the Marquise had not come in and
the old woman could not move. There were several rapid knocks on the
door.

"Open! open!" a voice called.

The voice had a strange, familiar tone. She listens. And Fanfar, for it
is he, repeats his demand.

"In the name of Francine, I beg you to open the door. It is for her
sake."

By what miracle did this paralyzed frame struggle to her feet? She takes
a step--then another.

"Make haste!" said Fanfar.

The woman obeys. She turns the key in the lock, with many efforts, but
it is done. Fanfar enters, and in the pale morning light is confronted
by this horrible apparition. He contemplates her with horror and pity.

"Madame," he said, "is not Francine here?"

She did not reply. She is looking at him earnestly.

"She has been carried off, by a man named Talizac."

The sick woman tried to repeat this name.

"Tell me," continued Fanfar, "the life of this girl, who cares for you,
who loves you, may depend on what you tell me. Have you ever seen any
man by the name of Talizac here? And a woman of great size known as La
Roulante, has she never been here to propose an infamous bargain?"

But he is interrupted. The paralytic falls upon her knees, and
stretching out her arms, cries:

"Jacques! Jacques!"

"Who is this terrible creature," asks Jacques, "who calls me by the name
of my boyhood?"

Suddenly a strange idea flashes into his mind. He looks eagerly into the
eyes of the poor woman. He recognizes her; he leans over her.

"You called me Jacques, did you not? Yes, that was my name, when I was a
boy in a village among the mountains. My father's name was Simon, Simon
Fougere, and I had a little sister Cinette."

The woman quivered from head to foot. She threw her arms around his
neck.

"Jacques! my child! My name is Francoise, and I am the widow of Simon
Fougere."

"Mother! dear mother!"

This shock has been so great that the vail that obscured the poor
woman's brain was rent in twain. She sees, she knows, s