nd
long, white hair, stood there.

"The Vicomte de Talizac is dead!" whispered one of the servants.

The stranger started, and, with a compassionate look, laid his hand on
the shoulder of the Marquis, who was kneeling by the body of his son.
The Marquis looked up and shrank back, saying:

"Pierre Labarre!"

It was, indeed, the old servant, sad eyed and hopeless. He had come to
Paris as quickly as possible, leaving Francoise and Caillette to follow.
He went at once to the court-room, and there heard that Fanfar had been
carried to one of the lower rooms. Physicians had been sent for, who had
attributed his death to an aneurism.

"You are avenged, Pierre!" cried the Marquis. "Why are you here? Leave
this house at once!"

But the old man did not move.

"No!" he said, "you must hear me. We have not done with each other." He
extended his hand toward the dead body. "You may well weep for your son,
Marquis, but you may also weep for Fanfar."

"Yes, because this fellow, for whom you would have stolen my father's
fortune, is dead. This Fanfar was my brother's son--I know it, and you
know it, too, but you do not know that I killed him!"

Labarre drew back in terror.

"No, no--do not say that!"

"Why should I not say it? It is true. I discovered the secret of his
birth, and I removed him from my path--I poisoned him!"

The old man staggered to the wall, where he leaned for support.

"Now, denounce me!" cried the Marquis, "and I am ready to mount the
scaffold. I killed this Fanfar, and this thought is all that gives me a
ray of comfort!"

"Hush! This Fanfar was not the Marquis de Fongereues, he was not Simon's
son. Do you remember a night which you once spent in a humble cottage at
Sachemont?"

"Sachemont?" repeated Fongereues.

"That night two men claimed the hospitality of an old man. One of these
strangers was a Frenchman, but he was base enough to insult the daughter
of the old man. He did worse--he committed a dastardly crime. That man,
sir, was known as the Marquis de Talizac!"

Fongereues sat with his eyes fixed on the old man.

"The Vicomte fled like a scoundrel, leaving dishonor and despair on his
track. But he never knew that the poor girl gave birth to a child--a
son."

"What of that!" cried Fongereues, who did not choose to understand.

"Silence! I have not finished. Do you know who took that child and
educated him? It was the brother whom you hated. Your victim was dead
and he married her sis